Not All Those Who Wander Are Lost
by bsmog
Summary: Tired of only being the Boy Who Lived, Harry disappears after the war, leaving only a mysterious letter behind. Five years later, Draco and his unlikely friends go on holiday and find magic where there is none and more on a mountain in Africa. EWE.
1. Prologue

This is what happens when an idea won't be quiet and I realize that these two characters really should be the canon pairing. Written for _EchoesofTwilight_ as a holdover until the barony works out and in inadequate exchange for all the pretty words, and for _wearingwords, coolbreeeze, sweetandsaltyff, _and_ venis_envy, _for their encouragement and giggles and general shared love of all things HP/DM, because they really should have ended up together.

All things Harry Potter belong to J.K. Rowling. No copyright infringement intended.

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**Prologue**

_December 1998, Number 12 Grimmauld Place, London_

"What do you mean, he's _gone_?"

A very dishevelled and still rather groggy Draco Malfoy sits uncomfortably in the kitchen in what apparently used to be Sirius Black's house and now belongs to one very absent Harry Potter. He looks up at Granger with a look of bewildered irritation. He was rousted from his own bed at Malfoy Manor far too early by a _very_ nervous house elf informing him that Granger was refusing to leave the Floo until he came downstairs.

It isn't the first time he's seen her since they left Hogwarts; Potter, Granger and the Weasel all spoke at his trial and they'd been the reason he wasn't rotting in Azkaban with the rest of the Death-Eaters. And there had been the funerals. Days upon days of funerals for classmates and teachers, and for some reason Harry bloody Potter and his bloody friends had been at all of them. Even Crabbe's, and Draco himself had only watched from a distance. It hadn't taken Draco long to figure out he wasn't interested in being one of The Dark Lord's pets, but Crabbe reveled in it and basked in the insanity right up to the moment he cast that wretched Fiendfyre and nearly killed them all.

But for Granger to appear uninvited at the Manor, even in the Floo, surely meant something was amiss, and so Draco dragged himself downstairs, now grateful he'd stopped to put on a dressing gown, because Granger had taken one look at him, popped through the Floo, grabbed him by the arm and Apparated straight back to Grimmauld Place, where Draco now sits, still completely lost as to why he's a part of this at all.

So what if Potter's gone? Bloody idiot probably found some kitten in a tree that needed saving. In Iceland. In a blizzard.

But Granger is having none of it. Draco notices her eyes are red and sort of puffy, and he supposes that if she's crying, maybe this is a bigger deal than he thinks.

"I don't _know_, do I Malfoy? If I _knew,_ I certainly wouldn't be sitting here talking with you about it, would I?" Granger's voice has reached that shrieky level he normally associates with mistreatment of house elves, or the Weasel being, well, the Weasel. "He was here last night, just like always, but when I came downstairs _this_ was at the table, and his things are gone!"

Granger waves a piece of parchment in front of Draco's face and he tries very hard to maintain the air of nonchalance he's managed so far. He really wants to grab the damn thing and figure out what the hell he's doing here at what he considers to be an uncivilized hour of the morning, but he waits, looking at her expectantly. Perhaps if he doesn't aggravate her further, she'll let him go home and go back to bed.

Finally she figures it out and turns a splotchy red, holding the parchment under Draco's nose. He reaches up to take it slowly, still watching Granger the as though she is a Hungarian Horntail that might just tear his head off if he moves too suddenly.

Satisfied she isn't going to start screeching again, Draco looks down at the parchment bearing Potter's distinctively inelegant script and immediately frowns, turning the thing over as though more words might just appear on the page. Stranger things have happened.

"This is it? This is all he said?" He's looking at Granger again and she nods. Something about the letter is...off. It's so very un-Potterlike, so lacking in Gryffindor sentiment and regard for everyone else's bloody _feelings_, but it hits a nerve in Draco anyway_._ Draco's stomach twists a bit as he holds Granger's eyes. This is wrong.

So much for going back to bed.

"Alright," he says, "I'll help you look for him. I haven't a bloody clue where he is, Granger, so stop looking at me like the cat that ate the canary, I just said I'd help. Now for Merlin's sake please go blow your nose."

She is beaming at him, or as close to beaming as he supposes she can get in spite of what Draco would call lunacy but a more generous person might refer to as zealous focus. Wonderful. He's helping Granger. And the Weasel too, he supposes, because where goes one goes the other. Draco Malfoy is helping Granger and the Weasel hunt for Harry Potter.

The world really has gone mad.

Then again, as he looks down at the piece of parchment still in his fingers and intentionally _doesn't _listen to Granger's insane prattle about plans and where to look and what books she most definitely will need, he thinks maybe the world's been mad, and Potter seemed to be the only one who could turn it right again. At least until he wrote this.


	2. Chapter One

A/N: Thank you all for reading and for those who left me your thoughts, I will catch up once the holidays have passed. For everyone asking if I will continue this, I've written 9 chapters, so I plan to post regularly and have it finished long before the last one goes up.

This is still for _EchoesofTwilight_, who knows why, and for _venis_envy, sweetandsaltyff, wearingwords, and coolbreeeze. _

Harry Potter and all related material belong to J.K. Rowling. No copyright infringement intended.

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_Five years later: December 2003 - Moshi, Tanzania_

"Weasley, I have no idea what you've gotten us into, but I'm revoking your holiday-planning privileges from this moment forward." Draco is hot, tired, and mostly unamused. He is sweating, and Malfoys do not sweat. Yet it seems the heat in this transcends even cooling charms.

He is only mostly unamused because he takes some satisfaction in the appearance of his two friends, who are equally hot, equally tired, and who chose to add to the adventure in this holiday by flying on a Muggle aeroplane from London instead of using a portkey. Draco had drawn the line at that; he was more than happy to travel, but he wasn't getting in one of those insane contraptions. Honestly, who ever heard of flying without magic?

The trip is Weasley's idea, of course. It seems the elder Weasley's fixation on all things Muggle has rubbed off on his children, particularly Ron. He's always turning up with strange Muggle contraptions and ideas, and it's all Draco can do to feign interest. Honestly, he has no idea how Granger puts up with the man.

But somehow when Weasley came home with the idea to take an "adventure holiday," Draco was sucked in. Granger's fault, he's sure.

_"Oh come with us to Africa, Draco. Wouldn't it be wonderful to go somewhere different, Draco? Think of the plants, Draco. You could use some time away, Draco, after..."_

He at least managed to shut her up before she continued down the "after..." path. While he agrees he needs a holiday, it is decidedly _not_ because he has ended yet another complete cock-up of a relationship. Honestly, if he took a trip every time he had a break-up, he might never get any work done.

Which is not to say he has commitment issues, no matter what Granger says, not that he's just "too bloody fussy," no matter what the Weasel says. He simply has standards, and apparently Wizarding London as a whole cannot produce a single man that meets them.

Well, it produced _one_, but the bastard disappeared five years ago and hasn't been heard from since.

"C'mon Malfoy, where's your sense of adventure?" Weasley is grinning at him and even Granger looks amused, which Draco takes to mean he looks as bad as he feels.

"Back in London, you prat, with the clouds and the rain." In spite of himself, Draco smiles. Weasley's - _Ron's, _because even though Draco still calls them Granger and the Weasel, the malice ran out long ago, he just saves _Hermione and Ron_ for particularly sappy or serious occasions - enthusiasm is so great it's contagious, and Draco is actually looking just a tiny bit forward to this trip. Not that he'll tell Ron that.

Besides, they are apparently climbing some sort of mountain, and surely the weather on a mountain will be cooler than _this._

In order to keep up appearances in this very strange airport in which the Muggle planes land on one side and the Portkey Office is just on the other side of a completely innocuous-looking door, they are carrying ridiculous amounts of baggage, but of course it's spelled to weigh next to nothing. Still, Draco looks forward to charming it all down to fit in the rucksack on his back and turns to Hermione expectantly.

"Alright Granger," he says, managing only barely not to call her Hermione, "where to?"

She has her nose buried in a book, looking up only occasionally for the telltale signs that would normally point to the Wizarding district. Not finding what she's looking for, she looks around the crowded, stuffy little building for the exit and leads them out the doors.

The sun is so bright Draco sees spots, and as the heat washes over him all over again he considers hexing Weasley for this insanity and turning right back around to the Portkey Office.

"We'll take a Muggle taxi," Hermione is saying, and Draco rolls his eyes at Ron's eager expression.

"Really, Weasley, you act like we never take taxis or something."

In fact, they ride around Muggle London in them all the time, much to Draco's chagrin. To indulge the Weasel, or so Hermione tells him, and he goes along with it, because they're his friends, and because he really doesn't mind, he just likes to complain to torture them, and because they allow it.

Every time Draco thinks about the strange threesome they must make, his mind goes back to the reason they've made it to begin with.

Potter.

And just like always, his stomach tightens just a little and flutters, making him gasp. It's ridiculous, he thinks, even as Potter's face floats into his head. Or what he imagines Potter would look like five years later, anyway.

His friends know, or he thinks they do, though they've never talked about how Draco feels about Potter. One of the very many concessions he's made in the last five years is that Ron and Hermione are surprisingly perceptive, despite the general reputation Gryiffindors have for being utterly thick. Especially Weasley, as much as it pains Draco to admit it, and he won't say it out loud unless under duress or the influence of a great deal of Firewhiskey. Ron can play at stupidity with the finest of them, but Draco's played him at chess (and lost handily) far too many times to think that the blank expression on that freckled face is as empty as it appears.

Then again, how they can't have guessed by now is beyond him. For a year after Granger dragged him from the Manor waving that letter, all they did was search for Potter and think about Potter and talk about bloody Potter. Every conversation returned to what he must be thinking or where he might go and why he might be there. Draco relived the entire year prior in Ron and Hermione's stories and the places they went looking. He visited Godric's Hollow and Hogsmeade and a hill in the Forest of Dean that made Hermione's eyes fill with tears and Ron clam up in uncharacteristic silence.

And he heard every Potter story he thought there could be to tell, but instead of the usual resentment he usually felt when people talked about the Boy Who Would Always Be Better Than Draco Malfoy, he found himself warming to the affectionate tales his friends told. It seemed Potter was sort of a delightful bloke when he wasn't trying to save the bloody world, and the envy Draco felt sitting in pub after pub listening to Ron and Hermione turned wistful and made him wish he could go back to their first day at Hogwarts and shake his 11-year-old self until he stopped being such an absolute twit so that maybe he could have spent the last eight years as Potter's friend too.

Even the envy drifted away after a while, replaced by a longing Draco never saw coming. The initial shock at realizing that his draw to Potter all those years might have been attraction quickly turned to baffled surprise and then to acceptance. It made sense, really, and Draco wondered how he hadn't put it together before. In hindsight, his almost-constant obsession with all things Potter during school combined with the realizations the came from a few late-night fumblings with Blaise Zabini after too much contraband Firewhiskey should have made the idea of an interest in Potter more than obvious.

Then again, Draco hasn't always been quite as certain of the obvious as he likes to pretend.

After the first year of searching, they grew tired and frustrated and thought perhaps they should return home and make a go of lives that didn't include living out of rucksacks and hunting for Potter day in and day out. But Draco knows Hermione and Ron still think of Potter all the time, just as he does.

The difference, he supposes, is that for him, Potter has become the Boy Who No One Can Measure Up To. And Draco doesn't even mind anymore. The place in Draco's gut that Potter occupies is so familiar now that Draco looks upon it as an old friend. It curls and smolders like the smoke from an extinguished candle, winding itself into Draco's chest and head and making everyone else he meets appear lacking somehow.

He supposes things might have been different if they'd found Potter, if he'd had to face the fact that the boy he'd hated so passionately had turned into the person whose very name made his breath catch in his throat, and who made it impossible for Draco to maintain a relationship with another wizard because no matter how hard they all tried, they would never be _him_. Because while Draco has spent five years learning to care about Harry Potter, befriending Potter's friends and generally wishing for nothing more than to see the bloody Chosen One walk through Ron and Hermione's cozy kitchen while the three of them were at dinner one night, Potter probably has forgotten Draco Malfoy ever existed.

Draco sighs and returns his mind to the present, looking out the window as the taxi bounces down dusty roads. Hermione is quizzing the driver, who is clearly so overwhelmed that his eyes have begun to resemble an owl's, about the coffee they see growing on the side of the road and the weather and the mountain.

The last does pique Draco's interest.

"Oh yes, Miss. The mountain is just there." The driver points at a very large, very dense bank of clouds. "In the afternoons the clouds surround it. You will be able to see it clearly in the evening when they've broken off."

This satisfies Hermione, though Draco looks apprehensively at the cloud bank. There's a mountain under that, and Weasley thinks they should climb it. The Muggle way. Draco thinks, for about the thousandth time, that he might forgo hexing and punch the stupid git. What the hell were they thinking? The whole point of being wizards was that they didn't _have_ to do things _The Muggle Way._

"This says our guide should be just through here," Hermione says as they depart the taxi and step through an alley way that looks empty, but Draco knows that means they're entering the Wizarding Quarter.

Sure enough, Granger taps on a few misshapen bricks and a doorway appears, swinging open and revealing a street that looks exactly like every other street they've been down, except Draco catches sight of signs that say things like _Shrinking Packs, One Galleon _and _Kilimanjaro Potions _and _Summit Apparition Point._

Hermione mutters a spell and opens the rucksack on her back, depositing the rest of her bulky baggage into it and looking relieved. Ron and Draco hasten to do the same and the three of them set off down the street to find the wizard who will, apparently, be dragging them up the mountain that's currently hiding behind a huge cloud bank, and will relieve them of a substantial number of galleons to do so.

"Just through here I think - no, Ron, for pity's sake we do not need to buy self-inflating sleeping mats, come on. The brochure said we'd be provided with wizarding tents and all the necessities to sleep, and what on earth will you do with that ridiculous thing when we get home?"

Ron still stands looking at some sort of rubber mat that looks like it has so much air in it that it might burst at any time. Draco thinks the thing looks ridiculous, and he's certain it's so full of air it would float if thrown out to sea. But evidently it's some sort of Muggle object, just enhanced for wizards, so he's not surprised Weasley's interested. He rolls his eyes and tugs on the other man's sleeve.

"For heaven's sake, Weasley, if you just stand here she'll leave us, and I've no idea where to find this guide. And I'm certain you don't either, am I right?"

Ron looks up sheepishly, then follows Draco's eyes down the street at Hermione's rapidly-retreating form. They exchange wordless glances and take off after her at a near-run, catching her only when she stops in front of a small white-washed building with a wooden plank hanging over the door that reads "Wanderlust Expeditions, Est. 1999."

"This is it," Hermione says and they enter.

Wanderlust Expeditions isn't much to look at, Draco thinks. There are two small wooden chairs by the lone window and a desk just in front of them as they walk in. Behind him is a closed wooden door. Nothing hangs on the white walls, and Draco wonders just what, exactly, the proprietor spends all their galleons on, since it certainly isn't on the base of operations.

A friendly looking man sits behind the desk scribbling with a quill, and he looks up as they walk in.

"Ah! Jambo my friends!" He looks down at a scrap of parchment pinned to the top of the desk. "You must be our climbing party, yes?"

Hermione nods, as does Ron, the latter with a bit more enthusiasm than Draco thinks is explicitly necessary. The man rises and comes around the front of the desk, putting out his hand to each of them in turn and introducing himself as Deo.

"You must be our guide then?" Hermione asks the smiling man.

"Me? Oh no Miss, I stopped guiding the mountain years ago. No, you're in for a real treat. The boss is taking you three. Insisted on it. If you ask me he just wants to go back up the mountain." Deo's smile grows wider, which Draco wouldn't have thought possible. "He never can get enough of the mountain."

Hermione smiles back and Deo turns his head toward the wooden door and shouts, "Hey Boss, they're here!"

The door creaks open and suddenly Draco thinks perhaps the room starts to swim before his eyes. He must be seeing things. It must be the heat. But as he starts to shake his head, blinking in an effort to clear what very obviously must be a hallucination, he hears Granger and Weasley's voices at the exact same moment his own lips move.

"Harry?"

"Potter."

"Bloody hell!"


	3. Chapter Two

Thank you all again for reading and offering your comments, as well as to those of you who encouraged me to write this in the first place.

_Harry Potter and all other related elements belong to J.K. Rowling. No copyright infringement intended._

* * *

The fact that Ron and Hermione also apparently see Harry Potter standing in the wooden doorway makes Draco feel at least a little better that he's not suddenly suffering from heat stroke or a fever from some wretched insect bite, but the sliver of relief is washed away by the wave of shock threatening to drown him in the middle of _Potter's_ office. The green eyes are unmistakable, as is the still-untamed shock of dark hair that sticks out from Potter's head. Draco can see the faint line of the famous scar on his forehead, erasing any thought of a very coincidental look-alike. No, Potter looks the same and yet not the same. Five years have been more than good to the man, Draco thinks in spite of himself, as has whatever it is he's been up to. He's lean and tanned, an obvious product of the amount of time he apparently spends on the mountain, or whatever else is involved in running this place. His face is a little weathered, a little older, and he's biting his lip just the tiniest bit as he surveys the three of them standing there in shock.

A second wave of something else that Draco thinks might be hurt breaks over the shock as he realises that Potter does not look surprised to see them. Potter _knew_ they would be coming? Of course he did, Draco thinks, he's the boss after all. He would have seen the names on the reservations.

The reservations they made months ago.

The unbelievable _bastard!_

As he tries to suppress the anger building in the pit of his stomach, as well as the _curlsmolder_ of heat he can't quite deny at the sight of a very real, very fit, very handsome Harry Potter standing not two metres away, Draco risks a glance at his friends. Ron is gaping in an unflattering manner that makes Draco think of a very large-mouthed fish, but he wouldn't say so for anything in this moment. He's certain that any moment now Ron will launch across the office and either hug Potter or pound his face in, and he's not sure he'll stop him either way. He's inclined to expect the latter, given that Ron's Auror brain will have already put together the same thoughts Draco just has.

Potter _knew_ they were coming, after all these years, and he has the gall to just stand there in the doorway and look at them as though they've come for tea after parting company a week ago.

One look at Granger's face and Draco knows Potter is in for it. She is so red Draco thinks there must not be any blood left anywhere _but_ in her face, and she is shaking so hard that the unsuspecting Deo has reached out a hand and is about to place it on her arm to steady her when Draco finds his voice.

"I might not do that, Deo," he says softly, cursing the catch he hears in the words. The poor man has no idea how terrifying Hermione can be when she's angry, and he's little more than an innocent bystander. He looks at Draco wide-eyed but seems to understand and nods as he backs away from her.

Draco looks at Ron and Hermione again, but neither seems ready to speak yet, and for pity's sake someone has to. He turns what he hopes is a cool gaze on Potter.

"So _this_ is where you've been all this time, Potter?" He tries, almost successfully, to keep his voice even. He wishes for his old air of detached nonchalance, but he's fallen out of practice. Hermione and Ron and all their wishy-washy _feelings_ wore off on him years ago, and he's mostly lost his ability to speak with the old Malfoy ice in his voice.

Potter looks almost relieved that someone has spoken. He's been standing stock-still, arms crossed so tightly over his chest that Draco can see the veins sticking out of his forearms and his fingers are white where they grip at his biceps. Five years ago Draco might have smirked at the so-obviously-defensive nature of his stance, but now he can't decide if he wants to go pry them apart or hex him so he freezes that way. He's clearly afraid, and part of Draco wants to soothe the fear away with kind fingers and gentle kisses in spite of his shock.

The other part wants to scream at Potter that now he knows how they've felt every day for five years, and that he would be best-suited to stay afraid for a while longer, just for good measure.

"Well, not _all_ this time, Malfoy, though I don't know what the hell it is to you at all." Potter's voice is cold, and the inflection he puts on Draco's last name is so vastly different from the way it's sounded coming from Ron and Hermione for so long that he barely even recognizes it.

The words sting and Draco gasps involuntarily, a sharp intake of breath that's dangerously close to a whimper. Of course Potter has no idea that Draco has been just as invested in five years of searching as his friends, but it's as though Potter has erased five years of carefully-built friendship and trust with one scathing reply.

It seems, however, that Potter's words have hit more than just him, and Hermione speaks up so fiercely that even Potter looks discomfited.

"How _dare_ you, Harry? You don't get to speak to Draco that way, not anymore. You have _no idea_ what we've been through since you... You have no _right_! Five bloody _years_, Harry! You don't know him anymore. You don't know any of us anymore, so don't you talk to him that way. And don't you talk to me at all!"

She is almost shrieking, and any other time Draco might have made a disparaging remark relating to her ability to match the pitch of merpeople, but he's stunned by her fierce defense of him, and by what he thinks might be tears pricking in his eyes. He's moved well past doubting that she and Ron care for him, but they carry on with easy teasing and banter normally, and usually leave the deeper things left unsaid. For his own part because he's afraid his admission of how important the two of them have become to him might break what little facade he has left, but also, he knows, because it inevitably would have brought them around to talk about Potter, and the farther away they got from their frantic year of searching, the less any of them wanted to relive it by going down that path.

But he makes a mental note to thank Hermione later. He might even hug her, he reflects as he blinks rapidly, hoping to clear the tears before they fall, although the shock of that might do her in.

Potter, to his credit, is also stunned by Hermione's outburst, and he's mirroring Ron's gaping-guppy look remarkably well. Draco supposes that even if Potter thought he would be forgiven for walking out of Grimmauld Place without so much as a by-your-leave five years ago, he probably did not expect his first reunion with anyone from his past to include Draco Malfoy, but just now he can't find a lot of sympathy for the prat. Still, he supposes he can add another element of surprise to the whole thing by being the bigger person, so he composes himself and speaks up again.

"I believe, Potter, that you'll find many things changed since you snuck out in the middle of the night." He gulps inwardly, trying to hold eye contact as Potter looks back at him and finally closes his mouth. "You may be surprised; it's not all as dire and tragic as you might think."

There. Let him chew on that for a moment. Draco deliberately looks away then and turns to draw nearer to Ron and Hermione, each still frozen in place. He speaks quietly into Ron's ear first.

"I know it's a shock, Weasley, but you'd do well to close your mouth, you're liable to catch flies." Ron blinks and snaps his jaw shut. Draco allows himself a small smile.

He turns back to Hermione now, placing a hand on her arm and positioning himself so Potter can't see his face at all.

"Thank you," he murmurs. She doesn't look up, and the small smile grows a little on his face. That famous Granger focus. Potter would do well to be terrified right about now. "Hermione." He raises his whisper only a little, but she looks up at his address. "Thank you."

She nods, and he knows he's done enough to fracture the wall of rage building up behind her eyes. _If you ever get out of this mess, Potter, you owe me big._

He trains his eyes back on Potter, whose confusion is evident.

"As I was saying, Potter, a great deal has changed in five years. While you were getting a tan," he looks pointedly at Potter's bronzed forearms, "we managed to figure out that perhaps we'd be better off _not_ trying to kill each other. While we were _looking for you_."

This has the desired effect, and Potter blinks at his words.

"_You _were looking for me? All three of you? Together?"

Ron finally speaks, cutting Draco off before he has a chance to compose a cutting reply, possibly having to do with Potter's ability to count to three.

"Yeah, Harry, all of us. Together. Turns out Draco here had a few decent ideas about where you might have got off to. Not that they panned out." Draco thinks perhaps Ron has decided to counteract Hermione's outburst with calm until he speaks again. "Because apparently you were in bloody _Africa_ skipping up bloody _mountains_ and getting on with your bloody _life_ while the rest of us went half out of our brains looking for you!"

Ah, more shouting. This will not end well. Draco sighs and affects an authoritative tone. Someone has to gain a bit of control here before the whole situation implodes before their eyes.

"Ron, perhaps you and Hermione could use a little air." Draco gestures to the door and looks meaningfully at his friends when they look at him. "Give me a moment to speak with Potter, and you two might wish to discuss if you'd still like to continue on this little adventure."

Hermione nods, though Ron looks less certain. His eyes keep darting back to Potter, who looks a bit unnerved by Draco's suggestion, and Draco laughs.

"Oh come now Potter," he says, "you're the Saviour of the bloody Wizarding World, Order of Merlin First Class and all-around hero." Potter cringes and Draco _almost _feels a pang of guilt. "Surely you're not afraid of five minutes alone with _me_. As I recall, the last time you fared far better than I, did you not?"

This is a low blow, and this time the pang of guilt does come as Draco lets his eyes drift meaningfully towards his chest, but he is feeling an unaccustomed sense of protection for his friends. Potter squeezes his eyes shut for a moment but finally nods.

"Good," Draco says and gently pushes Ron and Hermione out the door. He realises Deo is nowhere to be seen and wonders with a bit of envy how the man managed to sneak away.

"Oh relax, Potter," he says when the door closes behind his friends. "I'm not going to hex you."

_Much,_ he thinks, delighting for one indulgent second in the idea of sending a bat bogey hex at Potter's head, then dismissing it. They stand there looking at one another for long moments, the silence carrying on for longer than Draco likes, but he's going to let Potter break it. When he finally does, Draco is surprised at his soft words.

"I shouldn't have said what I did, Malfoy, I'm sorry. It isn't like I didn't know you'd be here, I've been staring at your booking since it came through trying to decide what to do, and then when you finally get here, I arse everything up in great fashion straight off. You seem to have that effect on me."

Now it's Draco's turn to gape at Potter as green eyes look pointedly at the place where his chest is crisscrossed with thin, pale raised flesh beneath his shirt. Potter's hand drifts up to muss his own hair, and Draco does his best to collect his thoughts.

"Look, Potter. You obviously knew we were coming, but you also obviously know we had no idea you'd be...well, we didn't expect you as a guide. You really think a whole week alone together on this mountain is a good idea?"

Potter doesn't speak for long moments, and Draco regards him with some mixture of curiosity, confusion, and irritating attraction. Why does the man have to be so bloody good-looking? Really, this whole exchange would be much easier if he'd disappeared and gotten ugly.

"Don't tell them," Potter looks meaningfully at the door, "but part of me has wanted to come home almost since I left. I just...well, I didn't know how for a while, and then I figured I'd waited too long. And before you start asking me about it, I'm not ready yet, but maybe once we get going... Anyway, when this booking came in, I thought long and hard about turning it away, saying we were booked up or something."

"But you didn't," Draco says, still watching Potter, who is actually flushing under his gaze. And Draco allows himself to admit he's enjoying it, even if it is pointless. Harry Potter has been setting him on edge since he was 11 years old; it's a nice change to turn the tables for just a moment.

"No, I didn't. I guess in my head I had this fantasy that we'd all just be happy to see one another and get on with it. Oh do shut up, Malfoy." He says that last in response to the snort Draco cannot contain. "You yourself have often accused me of being mad, and of leading a rich fantasy life. Evidently in this instance I've proved you quite correct."

Potter's flush deepens, casting a pinkish tint to the sun-darkened skin. Draco is considering becoming irritated with the man just for that, but drags his mind back to the issue at hand instead of focusing on how good Potter looks with some color in his face.

"Listen, Potter," he says, "it isn't me you have to convince. Weasley dragged me down here, I'm certainly not leaving before I at least _see_ this bloody mountain of yours, and if someone's going to drag me to the top of it, it might as well be the Saviour of the bloody Wizarding World. The way I see it, if we're attacked by a lion or some such thing, we'll send you out to vanquish it."

Potter rolls his eyes at the nickname, likely one he doesn't hear often down here, but doesn't speak.

"You'll have your hands full with those two though," Draco goes on, pointing at the door that Ron and Hermione just exited through. "I'm certain you noticed they're not exactly ready to let you off the hook just yet."

Potter nods, looking a bit miserable. Draco considers feeling sorry for him for a brief moment, until he remembers some of the more spectacular arguments that took place among himself, Granger and Weasley during that first year after Potter disappeared. Honestly, the man deserves a little time on the receiving end of their wrath. Let Potter see what it felt like to be in Draco's shoes for a while.

The thought no more than flies into Draco's head before he mentally slaps himself for it. That line of thinking was exactly why he _hadn't_ been Potter's friend for the first seven years they'd known one another, and he could do well to remember it. Things might have been a lot different for him in school and in the war if he'd known better back then.

Still, Draco cannot help but notice just how uncomfortable Potter is, even in his own office. He doesn't look at home; he's standing rigidly in front of the wooden door through which he'd entered, arms crossed protectively in front of his chest and looking like a child who's lost his way. He squeezes his eyes together and Draco thinks for a moment he looks like the Harry Potter who went off to fight the Dark Lord in Seventh year, preparing for no less than certain doom. When he opens them again though, it isn't challenge or Potter's patented Gryffindor courage that is reflected back at Draco. It's something so completely unexpected that when Potter does finally speak, it's all Draco can do to keep his mouth from falling open.

Unlike Potters and Weasleys, Malfoys do not gape, after all.

"Please," Potter's voice is barely above a whisper, and something about the raw pleading in that one word finds its way to the _curlsmolder_ place in Draco's chest and ignites it painfully. "This is probably the last chance I have, and I know it's my own stupid fault, but they were my _family_, and I walked away when I shouldn't have." Potter does not look at him as he speaks, his voice ragged and so very un-Harry Potter-like that Draco has to remind himself that he used to trade wicked insults with the younger version of this man in a not-so-distant life.

"I need to make this right. I can do that _up there_, Malfoy, please just help me get them up there?"

Draco considers Potter for a moment, his mind already made up, because he's the one who's been pining after the very _idea_ of Harry Potter for the better part of five years (and maybe longer, if he thinks hard on it, which he tries very hard not to do very often), and now Potter is asking him for help and how can he possibly refuse?

Besides, he's not lying when he tells Potter he wants to see this mountain that has so captivated the other man that he's spent his adult life dragging wizards up and down its face just to spend more time there.

He sighs. This isn't going to be easy. Ron and Hermione are as angry as he's seen them since that first year when it became apparent that Potter really wasn't going to come back, and that he didn't want to be found. Those days had been particularly dark for his friends; while Draco had struggled with the idea that a whole year's searching was fruitless, he'd come out of the year better off, but they had emerged devastated, mourning for a friend they all but left for dead. Ron and Hermione are _his_ family now for all practical purposes, and his curiosity about Potter is clashing rather violently with his loyalty to his friends.

"Look Potter, I can't tell you if you deserve another chance, or if they'll give you one even if you do." He pauses for a moment, but goes on quickly when he sees the wounded look on Potter's face. He knows he should be resisting harder than this, and his hand goes unconsciously to the folded parchment he carries in his pocket, so creased and worn it feels more like cloth. "Probably you don't, but I'm intrigued, and I'm here, and I suppose if you say this mountain of yours is so marvelous it can mend what's happened, I'll speak with them.

The look of utter joy that crosses Potter's face is like staring into a Patronus, all brightness and hope where only a second ago there was only despair, and Draco cannot help but smile back just a little, even as he wonders how on earth he's going to convince Ron and Hermione to go on with their trip.

"Thank you, Draco," Potter says as Draco turns to leave, and the use of his first name coupled with the gratitude that fairly flows through Potter's words make Draco trip over his own feet and redden, but he only nods without turning back and turns the handle to the door back out to the street.

"Be sure to leave that little move behind," Potter's voice is lighter now as it follows him out the door, "and be here with your things in the morning at seven. We'll want an early start."


	4. Chapter Three

Thank you all again for reading and offering your comments, as well as to those of you who encouraged me to write this in the first place. I'm posting a day early because well, I'm unexpectedly home thanks to Mother Nature. Also, chapters will be longer from here on out, though not always as long as this. Finally, the locations included in this story are very real, but they exist a little differently for everyone who's been there. Thank you for taking the time to read my account.

_Harry Potter and all other related elements belong to J.K. Rowling. No copyright infringement intended._

* * *

In the end, Ron and Hermione are not as hard to convince as Draco expected. Then again, Draco may fib a bit about "non-refundable fees," and he silently nods in mock-serious-solidarity with Ron as he rages about "bloody Harry's bloody nerve," all in the hopes that eventually one or the other of them might come 'round to his way of thinking and agree to continue with the trip as planned.

It really is Hermione's curiosity that decides it, much as Draco hoped when he appealed to her first and loudly, so as to make his case over Weasley's increasingly vehement curses.

"We've come all this way and we've _found _him, Hermione," he says patiently as they sit in the open courtyard of the inn sipping Muggle ale and eating exotically spiced foods Draco can't quite identify. "Don't you want to know what he's been doing? Why he left? We've wondered for so long, and with nothing to do but walk for a week, don't you want to take the chance to ask?"

Her eyes betray her even as she chews her lip in a trademark-Hermione gesture, and Draco knows they'll be outside Potter's office in the morning. The rest of the meal passes quietly except for Ron's occasional outbursts, and the shock of the day drives Draco into deep, if not entirely restful sleep.

The next morning dawns hot and sticky, and the three of them squint into the equatorial sun as they make their way out of the gated entrance to the inn and down the street to Potter's office. Ron is still cursing, albeit with less vehemence, and Hermione is quiet, though Draco thinks if he listens hard enough, he can hear her mind whirring like a time-turner.

For his own part, Draco is uncharacteristically excited, and it's unsettling him. Nothing about this day fits Draco Malfoy at all; he's dressed in an odd array of khakis and greens and browns in fabrics with names he's never heard of, though the woman at the Muggle store they'd bought their clothing and equipment from assured them they were "only the best thing in trekking fabrics." Whatever the hell that meant. Potter's company's colourful brochures and pre-trip instructions had included the London shop's name with a note that instructed prospective wizarding clients that for those interested in climbing "the Muggle way," they'd do best to buy the recommended items on the list, even if it meant a trip into the Muggle stores and feigning comprehension of words like "synthetic" and "fiber fill" and "wicking."

Draco suspects all they really did was part with a lot more money than was strictly necessary, but Weasley wants to do this like the Muggles do, and apparently Wanderlust Expeditions -_Potter_ - has rules about magic. Draco groans just thinking about that. Apparently he's going to be expected to do a good bit of this so-called trek without magic, and he'd be lying if he said it won't be a struggle.

As they round the bend in the road before the little street Potter's office is on, Weasley, who has been leading their little group because apparently the more he swears, the faster he walks, halts dead in his tracks so quickly that Draco and Hermione both collide with him in surprise.

"Bloody hell..." Ron breathes, and something in his tone makes Draco bit off the insult he's about to spit out. He and Granger both follow Ron's gaze and Draco finds himself unable to choke off the same epithet.

Potter's bloody _mountain_ looms ahead of them in all its snow-covered, sunlit glory this morning, and it is so vast and imposing and impossibly _steep_ that Draco cannot see how any person - magical or not - could ever reach the top on foot. He must be out of his mind, and Potter has clearly lost the plot years ago if he thinks he can get the three of them up _that._

It isn't as though they haven't seen pictures, and Draco has seen mountains before, but this is something different entirely. The mass of rock and ice towering over them in the cloudless sky is like a monolith rising out of the savannah all the way to the heavens. It's a volcano, Draco knows - dormant, he checked before agreeing to this insane trip - and now that he's looking at it, he can see how it rose straight up out of the earth in some dramatic, violent fashion that has put fear into him the likes of which he hasn't felt since he was a teenager.

But, there's nothing to be done for it now, so Draco quells his fear by smacking Weasley in the back of the head. Hard.

"Close your mouth, will you? Merlin." Draco arches a disdainful eyebrow at Weasley's glare, but he's fighting a smirk. "You look as though you're trying to catch bugs, and besides, _you_ chose this ridiculous trip up _that_." He gestures to the peak. "No backing out now, is there Weasel?"

He uses the old nickname now only in jest, and Ron smirks back and pulls a face as he rubs the back of his head.

They set off again, Ron's curses silenced, and Draco gives wordless thanks for that small favor. Perhaps his shock will keep him from hexing Potter on sight, since Ron had been the harder of the two to convince that this venture might be just the thing. As they round the last corner and Potter's office comes into view, Draco breathes in deeply, trying to calm the _curlsmolder_ feeling before it can begin to rise in his chest.

At the same moment, Potter strides through the door of Wanderlust's office right into their path, and his face lights up with such a brilliant smile that Draco is ready to just keep right on walking straight to the base of that ridiculous mountain and up its steepest face if only Potter will smile at him like that when they reach the top. He curses himself and the tendrils of want that curl in his stomach, shaking off his traitorous response to a man who, more than likely, couldn't care less how Draco Malfoy looks at him.

Ron and Hermione barely manage a civil response to Potter's slightly-overenthusiastic greeting, but Draco stays quiet instead of mocking Potter's zeal as he once might have, because any idiot can see Potter is so grateful for the chance to _be_ overly enthusiastic that Draco can't bring himself to stifle it. Neither, it seems, can Ron or Hermione, whose faces both show signs of conflicting emotions that Draco suspects are part irritation at the still-surprising presence of the idiot they've been searching for all this time and part infectious excitement, because that same great idiot is fairly humming with it.

Draco himself is rewarded with a softening of green eyes and a silently-mouthed "thank you," from Potter, coupled with a look at his friends when they aren't looking. Potter's gratitude is so earnest and clear on his face that Draco feels himself blush under his gaze, and he smiles back complicitly in spite of himself.

Deo appears from inside the office and bustles around the three of them, removing spelled packs from their hands and putting them in the boot of a Land Rover (which, Draco thinks to himself inspecting the rickety vehicle, does not look much like the shiny versions he sees on the Ron's Muggle television advertisements).

"Potter." Draco can't help himself. "Why on earth are we putting our things in that..._thing_? Certainly we could just Apparate to wherever this little adventure starts?"

Potter looks at him wryly.

"Glad you asked, Malfoy," he says, and his face shifts from patented Potter enthusiasm to what Draco thinks must be his _Guide_ face, and his voice, when he speaks again, has a decidedly-businesslike tone. "You've all signed up for a non-magical expedition, and that's precisely what we intend to give you. As such, there are a few rules and procedures you'll be expected to follow, and you _will_ follow them, because we'll be sharing our route with Muggles, and I've no intention of casting Memory Modification charms right and left in our wake.

"First, we'll be driving to the gate to the mountain. All climbers are expected to register, and that includes magical ones. Rescue missions up this thing are hard and costly, but they just plain don't happen if there's no record of you on the mountain to begin with.

"Although," Potter's voice softens for a second, "I've no intention of anyone in this party needing a rescue mission." He gulps and casts his eyes to the ground, and Draco looks at Ron and Hermione. Granger's face has relaxed minutely, and Draco can see the thoughts spinning in her head, wondering if perhaps this might work out after all.

"You can keep your wands, but you will not use them unless specifically told to do so. By me." He pauses, looking each of them in the eye closely. "From this moment forward, you will also not use magic unless I tell you to, or unless Healing is required and of the utmost urgency. If you so much as Warm your tea, I'll know, so don't think you'll get around me on this.

"Accommodations have been made so the trip will be comfortable for you, even by wizarding standards. You'll have hot meals in the morning and evening, and your tents are wizarding tents, so you'll have a great deal more space and heat than the Muggles sharing camp with you. And yes." He says this last looking straight at Draco. "You will be sharing camp with Muggles. The ministries here are very strict about where we walk, and there are only so many paths to the top."

His eyes bore into Draco, and he is reminded how little Potter knows about him now. Which he illustrates by putting an easy smile on his face, probably the last expression Potter expects.

"Potter, perhaps you haven't noticed, but I'm standing here, in front of _your_ office, _paying_ to walk up _that_," he points vaguely in the direction of the massive mountain, and then at his friends, "with _them_. Has it occurred to you, as I mentioned yesterday, that some things are not as they always have been? Like, for example, my tolerance of Muggles? After all, Weasley here has spent a good deal of time convincing me that a few of their inventions are quite useful. I'm sure I can resist the urge to hex them for a few days."

Potter looks at him, confusion and surprise washing over his face for a moment, then melting away to the all-business expression he was wearing before. Draco smirks though, knowing he's unsettled the man. He's perfectly happy to go along on this little adventure and more than a little intrigued to see what he might learn about this Potter along the way, but he'll not have the great idiot making assumptions where he hasn't the right.

"Alright," Potter says, "as long as you can adhere to the no-magic policy, the rest should be easy. Drink lots of fluids, try to eat even if you're not hungry, and even though I know none of you will want to," this is said meaningfully and with pointed looks at each of them, "if you're feeling off - nauseous, headache, lethargic - please tell me. It's likely altitude sickness, which is not a big thing by itself, but can become one if you don't treat it. Are we agreed?"

Tense silence drags on for what Draco knows is only seconds but feels like an eternity before Ron and Hermione finally nod. For his own part, Draco jerks his chin right away, because he'll be damned if Potter's going to think he can't do this just because he's not allowed magic. Although, as he looks up that blasted mountain again, he's sure he might die in the trying, but that's what The Boy Who Grew Up Hot is for; after all, he's always liked saving people.

With no further ado, they pile into the rickety car and bounce down dirt roads until they turn on what Draco doesn't think is a road at all, and the bouncing heightens to such levels he's sure his kidneys will not survive the trip even if the rest of him does. Finally they come to a stop and stand uncertainly at a gate (Draco wasn't expecting an _actual_ gate) as Potter goes into a hut and does something involving paperwork and a lot of gesturing and signing of things. People mill about, some locals selling wares that Draco thinks are meant to be attractive to Muggles, but some of which carry unmistakable magical signatures, and he wonders just how different this place really must be that the Wizarding and Muggle worlds combine so freely.

But when Harry comes out he is supremely unruffled and does no more than flick a wrist their way, indicating, apparently, that it's time to start walking. A younger man, Deo introduced him before they left as Charles, has taken their things from the back of the Land Rover and disappeared into the jungle with them. A porter, Potter had said. Magical expeditions only have one, he told them on the way up the road, because their supplies can be spelled, but Charles will have their camp set up when they arrive, and prepare the food. Charles told them in no uncertain terms that he's far better-suited for this than they themselves would be anyway, since he grew up on the mountain's flanks, and the altitude doesn't bother him.

He also teaches them a few local phrases, so they can greet other porters on their way up the mountain. _Jambo_ for hello, _asante sana _for thank you very much, which Draco thinks he will need a good many times in the next week, and _pole pole_ for slow down. This last, apparently, is one the Muggles have to learn so their guides can slow them down when they think climbing more rapidly than necessary is a good idea. This idea also makes Draco laugh. Climbing this bloody mountain too fast? He's certain it will take a month to get him to the top, but he doesn't say as much to Potter or to Granger or Weasley.

The trio follows Potter down a quickly-narrowing pathway and before Draco knows it, they're walking through the densest foliage he's ever seen, and none of it looks familiar. The ground is slick and muddy, and none of them escapes at least one slip to the ground, though they keep quiet about it. Draco tries to keep his concentration on where he's putting his feet in the mud rather than on Potter, whose nimble steps and occasional commentary about this plant or that tree or the monkey that's just leapt over their heads are equal parts irritating and mesmerizing.

He might as well be walking down the street in Diagon Alley for all the effort the walk through the jungle seems to cost him, and Draco wants to hex him for it, but the ease with which he steps and weaves and holds out a hand to help Hermione over particularly large obstacles in the path is confident. Draco thinks back to the brooding, always-slightly-put-out Potter from school and struggles to see that boy in the man in front of them.

Intriguing. Evidently he isn't the only one who's changed.

Eight very muddy, very damp, very tiring hours later, they crest a hill and Potter says, "Welcome to Big Tree camp."

Draco is too tired to roll his eyes at the obviousness of the name, since everywhere he looks there are trees that make the Whomping Willow back at Hogwarts look like a shrub. Potter stumbles over the Latin name when Draco asks, but manages to tell them that these trees can reach nearly 40 metres in height, and when thick enough, actually keep the rain out of the forest floor completely. Draco supposes this is why the camp is here, and Potter says as much.

Supper passes in tense silence, and Draco knows his friends are still trying to decide when to confront Potter about his disappearance. The food is both good and plentiful, and Potter puts on his _Guide_ face long enough to tell them to eat while they're hungry, because they might not feel much like it later. Draco eats heartily, as do his friends, but is otherwise frankly too tired to care about the tension in the cook tent after the surprise of the day before combined with eight hours of walking today, and he turns in first. He feels a little bit claustrophobic in this camp, which he attributes to the number of climbers in such a small space.

Potter and then Charles both told them as they reached the camp that this would be their most crowded evening since several routes diverge from where they'll be sleeping the next night. Draco looks forward to the near-solitude Potter promises their route will provide after one more night, and he thinks he'll bide his own time until then.

He has a few questions for this new Harry Potter as well, and he's not sure either of them want anyone else around when he asks them.

The next few days pass in much the same fashion. Get up, have tea and coffee (which is excellent up here, owing to the fact that what they're drinking is evidently grown at the base of the mountain) and breakfast, walk, have lunch, walk, have tea, walk, have supper, slide into oblivious sleep. Interactions among the four of them have reached a cordial level, but Draco sees it more as in intricate dance. Harry continues to tell them about local flora and fauna, talking about the temperate zones on the mountain as they walk through each. As they come out of the jungle onto vast plains, he points out the most bizarre trees Draco has ever seen, calling them _senecios_ and explaining they only grow on the sides of this mountain and a couple of other places in the region, and huge flowers that he says are _lobelia,_ though they're nothing like the flowers of the same name Draco has ever seen.

Listening to Harry Potter go on and on about plants strikes a surreal chord in Draco's brain, but he leaves it be. Hermione, who predictably cannot help herself when any new piece of knowledge comes her way, breaks her stubborn near-silence of the last three days to ask a thousand questions about the plants. Which ones are edible? Which can be used to make potions? Do any have magical properties that are exclusive to this area? Does anyone harvest them?

Ron is still quiet, although the downturn of his mouth and the hard set of his eyes has abated somewhat in the face of Hermione's curiosity. Draco wonders if Ron is taking his cues from her or if he's so relieved to see her acting just a little bit normal around Potter that he's somewhat mollified as well. Either way, by the time they reach what Potter tells them is called Moir Camp on the third night, the tension has eased just a little bit. They sit around the cook tent after eating for the first time since they arrived, making idle small talk about anything and everything except the world Potter left behind and how it changed when he did so. Instead they talk about Quidditch and African food and some of the stranger clients Potter has taken up the mountain, and it's strangely easy.

When at last they all retire, Ron, Hermione and Draco to the very spacious wizard's tent Potter has provided them and Potter to his own much smaller tent across the small clearing they've camped in, they actually bid one another good night with smiles, and it seems a temporary peace has been achieved, for a moment anyway.

Several hours later, Draco lies awake, silently cursing the miserable drag of the night. There is absolutely no reason on earth he should not be sleeping, and yet here he lies, wide awake and half out of his mind from the sound of Weasley's snoring from across the tent. It might be impressive were it not so irritating, because it is a large tent with multiple rooms, and yet Weasley might as well be lying next to him, perish that horrible thought. Draco shudders.

Perhaps he'll need to beg Potter for an exception to the no-magic rule. The man shared a room with Weasley once up on a time, surely he'll have some sympathy for Draco's ears. Otherwise Draco thinks he may die from lack of sleep before he ever reaches the top of this ridiculous mountain. As he lies there trying to block out the horrific sounds coming from Weasley - _how on earth does Hermione sleep with that every night? - _he wonders why on earth anyone would ever do this for fun.

A particularly loud inhalation from the other side of the tent is the last straw, and Draco very nearly jumps out of bed as his irritation spikes. He stands for a moment, trying to steady his breath and _not_ break Potter's ridiculous rule by going to Ron's bedside and administering a _Petrificus Totalus_ the likes of which Weasley has never seen. Perhaps what he really needs is some fresh air. He looks around for his clothes, dressing in extra layers of the Muggle underclothes that he has to admit are both warm and soft against his skin. As an afterthought, he pulls the sleeping sack from his bed and rolls it over his arm. Listening to Weasley might be good reason to flee the tent, but he has no intention of having his friends find him frozen solid outside in the morning.

He ducks out into the cold night air, lungs protesting sharply against the chill that accompanies his first breath.

"Fuck," he mutters against the night air and considers abandoning fresh air in favor of warmth, but he gets no more than two steps away from the tent an Weasley's snores are already dampened, and he can almost feel himself relaxing as he distances himself from that awful sound. Anyone who thinks a mandrake is painful to the ears has never slept in close proximity to Ronald Weasley.

"Can't sleep, Malfoy?"

Draco nearly leaps out of his skin at the soft voice from behind him. As he turns, he sees Potter regarding him from the ground next to a small fire that wasn't there before. In fact, he's pretty sure Potter rambled something about fires being forbidden on the mountain on their first day. Interesting.

He knows Potter puts up wards around their camp each night so the Muggles won't decide to stop in and wonder where all their porters are or, Merlin forbid, see their tents. Apparently he's decided that since no one can see it, a fire is also within bounds.

He supposes there's nothing for it, so he wanders over to the fire uncertainly. He can tell by looking at it that it's magical, its symmetry and lack of choking smoke are dead giveaways. He supposes this is how Potter justifies breaking this particular rule, since this fire is far more easily controlled than a natural one.

Draco remains standing and Potter looks up at him expectantly, reminding Draco that he'd asked a question.

"No. No one could sleep with Weasley in there sounding like some sort of Muggle deforestation equipment."

Potter laughs, a grin stretching across his face. Draco is simultaneously surprised to see it and irritated with the way it sparks that feeling in his chest he's been trying so bloody hard to suppress.

"He still does that then?" Potter is still laughing, but Draco starts at the first reference to the past since they left Moshi. He nods slowly. "You might as well sit, Malfoy, I won't bite."

Draco sighs and rolls his eyes, then gingerly sits on the ground not quite all the way around the fire from Potter, but not next to him either. Potter continues to chuckle quietly. Eventually he goes silent and they stare into the flames. Draco is almost uncomfortable in the silence, which is saying something, because he grew up with lengthy silences in Malfoy Manor, but this is stretching on longer than he can stand. He's about to make some inane comment about the fire when Potter's voice, far more serious than a moment ago, breaks the silence.

"Why are you here, Malfoy?"

And so it begins, but Draco, refusing to let Potter get the upper hand, manages a long-suffering sigh and says, with feigned but practiced nonchalance, "I should think that's rather obvious, isn't it?" He looks towards where he knows the summit of the mountain rises among the stars, and Potter rolls his eyes.

"That isn't what I meant, and you know it."

Draco shifts in his position in the dirt, drawing his knees up to his chest and pulling the sleep sack around his shoulders. Potter's voice has lost all its warmth, and suddenly Draco feels as though the heat has gone out of the fire with it.

"First of all," he says after a while, "we didn't know you'd be here." _Which is more than I can say for you._ "We came on holiday, and it turned out you were here. And as to why we're still here, you asked me to make that happen, in case you've forgotten."

Potter closes his eyes for a moment, looking frustrated.

"That isn't what I meant either, although I suppose it's what I said." He looks into Draco's eyes as though searching for his answers without having to ask the questions. "I meant why are _you_ here with _them_?"

Ah. It's to begin here then. Draco nods. This was one of the points he was sure would come up, he just wasn't sure at what point Potter would ask this question. He supposes there's nothing to it but to just come out with it then.

"I suppose when you wrote that letter, you actually thought they'd honor your ridiculous request that no one look for you, hm? I suppose it goes without saying now that the both of them disregarded that request straight off." Potter looks sheepishly at the ground, and Draco suspects that he might do a few things differently if he had that day to do over again. "Well, you also should have guessed they'd come to me. You mentioned me in that letter, and you should have known Granger would jump on anything you wrote, and she did."

Draco looks at Harry, trying to decide how much to say. Some of this story isn't his to tell, but he's not sure how much of it Ron or Hermione might be willing to share. He's also not sure how much of it Potter's earned.

"As you _also_ already know, we looked for you. For a long time. With a great deal of discomfort, if you must know. And having heard every Harry bloody Potter story those two have to tell, I can tell you that searching for you is just as painstaking as your great Horcrux hunt."

Potter glares, but Draco is having none of it.

"After a whole year, Potter, don't you think if the three of us hadn't killed one another, perhaps we might be friends? I'm not actually as horrid as all that, which I thought you might have noticed when I didn't sell you out to the Dark Lord at the Manor. _They_ certainly noticed."

He jerks his chin towards the tent where Ron and Hermione are sleeping. He's being cruel and he knows it, but he can't help himself. Draco has never been one to deny someone his right to be selfish; he is firmly in the camp that believes selfishness is perfectly acceptable in moderation, and he can't help it if his idea of moderation is sometimes a bit greater than others. But Potter's midnight flight turned more lives upside-down than he could know. He knows that Potter knows what he did, and besides, Potter saved his life as well, so he has no business bringing up the past. Still, watching Potter's eyes go wide in the firelight is just the littlest bit rewarding, and Draco goes on.

"Look, Potter. You left. They were your friends, and they still care about you, even if they've done the most effective job I've ever seen at freezing you out the past few days. But it's been five years. You can't say I might not have ended up friends with them even if you'd stayed." He takes a deep breath. "Hell, Potter, you don't know that you and I might not have ended up friends."

This has the desired effect, because Draco doesn't really want to have all this out in one night, and he doesn't want to have any of it out without speaking with Ron and Hermione. Potter smiles, a small, cautious smile, and Draco smiles back, relieved to have sparked something besides fury in Potter. When he goes on, he speaks more quietly, moderating his tone.

"I'm not a Death Eater anymore, Potter. If you want the truth, I never really wanted to be, but I was young and terrified and I didn't really have much choice. You of all people should understand that. I've made something of myself since you left that has nothing to do with the Dark Lord or my father, and much as it sometimes pains me to admit it, Granger and Weasley have had a good bit to do with that. They like me, and I like them, and we tolerate one another's oddities. They are my friends, it's that simple.

"And that, Potter, is why I'm here. With them."

It's not the whole story. It's not even most of the story, but Draco feels as though the door has been opened now, and without all the hostility that might have been there.

"I think sometimes I forget that Voldemort and the Death Eaters are really in the past," Potter says quietly, and Draco nods.

Potter's so far away from all of that down here, he probably hasn't considered just how quickly most of the wizarding world has been willing to put the war behind it and carry on. Days and even weeks go by with no mention of any of it, or even of Potter, and it's all becoming history with alarming speed. But Potter wouldn't know that.

"Did it hurt?" Draco looks at Potter at the question, having no earthly idea what the other man is talking about until he catches his eye looking at Draco's left forearm, which Draco has been unconsciously rubbing since the first time he said the words Death Eater.

Draco quirks an eyebrow and gestures at Potter's forehead. "Did that?"

Potter laughs. "Fair point." He rubs his eyes and stands, walking over to where Draco is still on the ground watching him and putting out a hand to help Draco up. He stands, and perhaps its his imagination, but he thinks maybe Potter holds his hand just a little longer than necessary. "Go to bed, Malfoy. The altitude will get hard tomorrow and you should rest while you can."

"In case you've already forgotten," Draco says tiredly, thinking nothing would be better than sleep right about now, "Weasley is still in there making that terrible racket."

"Cast a Silencing Charm," Potter says quietly and extinguishes his fire, leaving them bathed in starlit darkness. He turns to walk towards his tent, pausing for a moment and looking over his shoulder. "Good night, Draco."

Draco stares at his back as he disappears into the darkness until a shiver startles him.

"Good night, Harry," he whispers, and wanders back to his own tent to shut out Ron's snoring and try to get some sleep.

And sleep he does, though not much and not particularly well. His dreams are filled with flashbacks to the days before Potter killed the Dark Lord, and he fitfully relives being Marked and the Fiendfyre and that horrible night with his insane Aunt Bellatrix in the Manor, and when the sun begins to brighten the walls of the tent, he is grateful. He dispels his Silencing Charm with a small smile after he dresses and steps out into the morning light.

The canyon they're camped in is steep and rocky, and Draco can see the path they'll take to get out of it later. It is also steep and rocky, and Draco wonders for the thousandth time why anyone thinks this is fun. Strange little shrubs cling to rocky hillsides, and the knowledge that some of them are decades old despite their stature brought another round of questions from Hermione the day before. Potter explained, to her very great interest, that mountainous bushes have adapted to their environment in such a way that they remain low to the ground to stay clear of the elements, and that their growth is measured in much tinier increments than the trees she's used to.

It seems the most natural thing in the world to Draco, adaptation. There was a time he would not have thought so, but for a very privileged and very sheltered boy of 16, he learned to adapt rather quickly during the events leading up to the war. He'd been almost surprised at times to realise he had a survival instinct at all, but after so much structure and propriety for so long, it had been something of a relief to relinquish some of the Malfoy control and let those instincts take over.

By the time the war ended, giving into instinct had become, well, instinct, and Draco knows now that it was that response that made him decide helping Hermione and Ron was the best course five years ago. That, and Potter's bloody letter, which Draco still intends to take up with the man at some point on this trip.

He is the first one in the cook tent, unsurprising since he thought he could still hear echoes of Weasley's abominable snoring as he left their tent a few moments ago. Charles is there, fussing over their usual breakfast of eggs and slightly burned toast, and he greets Draco cheerfully. Draco returns the man's chatter with as much pleasantry as he can muster and drops heavily into one of the canvas chairs that sits around the table.

He lets his head drop back and his eyes close for a moment while he waits for breakfast, enjoying the relative quiet of the tent and the inconsequential sounds from the cooking stove. He thinks he might be nearly asleep when he is abruptly, though not unpleasantly brought back to the present by the scent of coffee wafting right under his nose. When he opens his eyes, Potter is there, holding out a mug expectantly, a small smile on his face.

"I thought you might need this," he says, placing the mug on the table in front of Draco. "Though how you can possibly even call this coffee is beyond me with all that sugar you like."

Draco gapes at him. Potter knows how he likes his coffee? After three mornings? And he's _brought_ Draco coffee? Perhaps last night's fireside chat was the beginning of something after all, Draco thinks.

"Well, drink up." Potter laughs. "Just because I let you break one rule doesn't mean I'll let you warm that with magic if you just sit there while it gets cold."

Draco closes his mouth and picks up the mug, letting it sit in his hands for a moment and savouring the feeling of the heat spreading from his palms and up into his arms before he takes a sip and closes his eyes again, this time in complete, coffee-induced bliss. Potter's quiet chuckle from somewhere very close to him makes him realise he might have moaned a little with pleasure.

"What?" Draco flushes a little but looks up and fixes Potter with what he hopes is a haughty gaze in spite of his pleasure at both the coffee, which is made perfectly, and Potter's proximity at his side.. "The first sip of coffee in a morning is very often the best part of my day, Potter, and I won't apologize for enjoying it."

The light flush he was fighting deepens uncontrollably as Potter places a gentle hand on his shoulder and squeezes for a minute as he grins down at Draco, and then steps away smoothly as the tent flap parts and both Ron and Hermione duck through in a burst of cold air. The exchange of morning pleasantries among the other four inhabitants of the tent gives Draco a moment to replay the odd little scene he's just been a part of involving Potter and coffee and smiles and that warm hand that he's trying not to read too much into.

He does notice, with some satisfaction, that Potter does not fetch coffee for Ron or Hermione. He also doesn't casually set a plate full of food down in front of either of them, and so Draco tries very hard not to stare again and instead picks up his fork and attacks his eggs with an enthusiasm he doesn't feel for the food, but musters instead for the gesture.

He wonders if Potter is merely expressing gratitude for finally getting some kind of civil conversation out of one of their party, or if there's something more, and tries very hard not to hope for the latter. It's just a peace offering, he thinks, just like last night's conversation, and he shouldn't read more into it than that.

He half-listens as Potter talks about today's route, still trying very hard _not_ to overthink the mug and plate in front of him.

"It'll be a short walk," he's saying, "maybe a couple of hours, but we gain a lot of altitude today and you'll need the rest to acclimate."

Ron is looking at him skeptically.

"What will we do once we get there then? I mean, it isn't as though we have a lot to do in these camps you know. Why can't we just keep walking?"

Draco rolls his eyes, mostly because he knows there is in fact a point to the exacting nature of the route, and that Ron knows it too, but he's always a bit impatient to take on something bigger. It's something else that makes him a better Auror. He's neither fearless nor reckless, no one who's lived through what Ron has would be, but he's brave and has apparently taken on some of Hermione's tendencies toward overachievement.

"The last day before the summit push is a long one," Potter says patiently, "and you'll be glad for the two days of short walks before that. Besides, if you're feeling up to it when we get to the Tower today, we can do a bit of rock-climbing. It'll more than pass the time, I assure you."

Ron's face lights up at this, and Draco feels like maybe he should just leave his eyes rolled into the back of his head for the rest of the day. Rock-climbing. Lovely.

They pack their things up and leave Charles to spell their camp back into his pack and set off up the path. It is steeper and rockier than it looked, and Draco resorts to counting the painfully slow steps between boulders so as not to sit down in the middle of it and give up.

The air is noticeably thin up here, and his breath comes faster than he'd like, though he's pleased to note that Hermione and Ron are both huffing and puffing ahead of him. Porters pass them with irritating frequency, calling out greetings and admonishments of "pole pole" as they glide by with ease. In his logical brain Draco knows they do this so often over the course of a year, and have been doing so for so many years, that this is no more challenging to them than walking up the stairs in his flat is to him.

By the time they reach the rim of the canyon, Draco is, as usual, muttering curses at Weasley under his breath and swearing to himself that the next time his friends want to take a holiday, he's planning it. That way the highest altitude they'll ever reach is the second floor of whatever very nice, very warm restaurant he chooses.

He's still muttering and counting and cursing when he realises someone is walking next to him and he looks up in surprise to see Potter watching him with some amusement.

"_What_?" He huffs.

"If I didn't know any better, Draco, I'd say you weren't enjoying yourself." Potter's voice is irritatingly even.

Draco snorts. "Who's to say you do know better, _Harry_?"

He means the use of Potter's first name to needle the other man, but when it flies from his lips he realises he rather likes the sound of it. By the look of the quick flare of surprised delight on Potter's face, so does he, but he lets it go.

"We're nearly there," he says, and points.

Draco looks up for the first time since they started walking (he's discovered that looking ahead of him more than the next boulder is so defeating that he's stopped doing it unless absolutely necessary) to see a rock outcropping so large and looming that Draco stops in his tracks.

"Well," he says softly, "I can see why they call it a tower."

Potter nods. "We'll camp on the uphill side of it and walk up that way to Arrow Glacier tomorrow." He points towards the upper slopes of the mountain.

Draco is getting his first view of the last few days of the climb, and of the volcano's crater rim for the first time, and he finds himself dumbstruck. Potter, as has become his habit it seems, is watching his gaze and seems to read Draco's thoughts perfectly.

"It's overwhelming, isn't it?"

Draco nods silently and with effort resumes his slow steps. Potter matches his pace.

"Day after tomorrow will be the hardest. The Breach can't be done in segments, and we'll probably be on it all day, but the view from the top more than makes up for it." His tone is so reverent that Draco thinks absently that he feels as though he's intruding on Potter talking about a lover.

"You really do love this bloody mountain, don't you?" He says after fifteen or so more labored steps.

Potter grins. "I really do."


	5. Chapter Four

_All fictional elements referred to herein belong to their respective owners. Harry Potter is Rowling's, All That is Gold Does Not Glitter is Tolkien's, and very little is mine. No copyright infringement intended._

* * *

They arrive at the bottom of Lava Tower perhaps 30 minutes later, and Draco takes pleasure in the fact that Potter has stayed at his side, talking casually about the rocks and lava flows and pointing out places on the tower that can be climbed. Draco just listens, letting Potter's voice wash over him and enjoying the infectious affection he has for every minute detail of his ridiculous mountain.

Draco has never cared so much about rocks in his life, he thinks, as he asks questions about how long the tower has been there and if all of Potter's clients try to climb it and a dozen other trivialities that don't matter but do somehow, because the precarious bridge of common ground they both seem to be trying to build needs roots somewhere, and this mountain seems just big enough and stable enough to hold them.

When they reach the tower, Charles has tea ready, and Draco silently blesses the man while clapping him on the back, a very grateful and oft-used _asante sana_ tumbling from his lips as he takes the cup. He pinches his eyes closed against the ache that has blossomed so abruptly behind his eyes that it feels like an explosion, but says nothing and ambles slowly (because everything is slow at this altitude, he's discovered) to the rock face that Potter is pointing up at animatedly while Ron and Hermione look on.

Ron is wearing his _Auror_ face, and Draco already knows this single afternoon might be the one that brings Ron back around on the subject of Harry Potter, though he suspects Potter doesn't know that. The challenge appeals to Ron's nature, but he's also best when he has something to do. Idle time doesn't sit well with Ron, and it adds to any agitation he might already be feeling. Give him something to focus on though, and he'll start building his own bridge between the past and the present without even knowing it.

Hermione looks a bit more apprehensive, but Draco supposes that's more to do with the height of the rock face they're standing below. Draco shudders. He's not afraid of heights, nor even of falling from them, but this whole lack-of-magic thing does put him on edge, and the contraption Potter is holding out to Ron most definitely does _not_ look like enough to keep Draco from plummeting into the earth with one misplaced hand.

Perhaps he'll just watch for a bit.

"...have to climb up and fix that first, then I'll stand down here and belay so you won't fall if you lose your grip, alright?"

Ron is looking doubtfully at Potter, and Draco can see his mind racing. Trust. This all comes down to Ron trusting Potter, something Draco knows his friend hasn't done in years. But Draco also knows from the conflicting expressions on Ron's face and the whiteness in his knuckles as he grips the harness in his hand that he really wants to. Draco holds his breath and waits, impressed at the cool composure on Potter's own face, but noting that his hands betray him as well, shaking almost imperceptibly on the rope he's holding out to Ron.

Finally, Ron nods, Potter smiles, and Draco lets out his breath in a _whoosh._ Something has just happened here, and Draco can't tell just how big a something it is yet, but he's grateful for it.

After a brief lesson in this _belaying _technique which looks to Draco like little more than Ron clinging to a rope to keep Potter from plummeting to the ground, Potter puts his hands up on the rocks and, to Draco's utter amazement, begins scrambling up its face with the same effortlessness he showed on the hike in. He's stripped to his shirtsleeves, and the veins and corded muscles in his forearms flex and ripple as he grips small shelves and crevices on the side of the tower. He's also rolled up the legs of his trousers to the knees, Draco supposes this is so he doesn't catch the hems under his boots, and the flex of the sinuous muscles in his calves makes Draco's mouth go just a little bit dry in appreciation.

If he's being honest, watching Potter shimmy up the rock face, placing small peg-like screws in as he goes, is more than a bit of a turn-on, and he gulps and tries to think of anything to shut off his body's response to Potter's lithe movements up the rock with limited success.

When he reaches the top, Potter turns back down and shouts something to Ron, evidently relating to holding tight to the rope though his harness and bracing his feet so Potter can test the holds. Ron does something with the rope and the odd looking clips that dangle from the harness, looking up at Potter who looks back down at him and nods and gives an experimental tug on the rope. Ron jerks slightly, but grips the rope in his fists.

"Alright Harry, I think I've got it!" He shouts up and Potter, who has been tying some sort of knot into his own harness nods.

"Okay Ron, brace your feet like I showed you and hold the rope tight, but not so tight it won't slide a bit. Malfoy!" Potter's shout surprises him and he looks up. "Do me a favour and go stand next to Ron and just hang onto the rope, will you? Back-up is never a bad idea and all you have to do is catch me if Ron loses is grip."

_All you have to do..._

Draco snorts. Oh, that's _all_ is it? Catch the great idiot if Ron loses his grip? Wonderful. He can see the headline in _The Daily Prophet _now: "Boy Who LIved Found, Then Dropped to His Death in Africa by Ex-Death Eater Draco Malfoy."

"It's fine, Draco," Ron says, looking like he's reading Draco's mind. "I've got it, just hold the rope."

Draco grudgingly comes over to grab the rope in his hands, trying for a moment to ignore his blinding headache and concentrate on not becoming front page news for killing Potter after finally finding him. Ron calls up that they're ready and Potter slowly releases his hold on the rock face. Draco can see Ron begin to absorb his weight, his body lifting a bit from the ground against it, but he steadies himself and begins to let the rope slide slowly through his hands as Potter gracefully pushes off from the rock face and slides down to the ground.

When he reaches them, unclipping the rope from his harness, he's grinning and so is Ron, and Potter claps Weasley on the back.

"Well done, Ron!" He says, and to Draco's surprise and relief, Weasley lights up at the praise instead of bristling beneath it.

Something has indeed happened here today, and Draco knows now that it's more than he could possibly have hoped for.

They pass the rest of the afternoon in the sun; Ron's repeated efforts to scale the tower meeting with increasingly better results until he finally comes even with Potter's highest screw with a shout of glee. Even Hermione shows some promise, and Potter comments seriously that she has excellent technique, and that there are lots of good places to climb back home if she's interested in continuing, and she beams.

While Ron and Hermione rest for a few moments against the rock face, Potter walks over to where Draco is lying on the ground, fingers laced behind his head.

"You want to have a go?" Potter asks, and Draco groans before he can help himself and shakes his head slowly. Potter looks at him closely, concern instantly coming over his features. "Headache?"

Draco sighs.

"Yes, if you must know, and no, since I know you're going to ask, I wasn't keeping it from you, it only just hit this afternoon." He squints up at Potter, expecting some sort of remonstration for not reporting his discomfort immediately, but Potter only nods.

"This is a pretty common place for the altitude to catch up to you," he says softly. "I've got something you can take for it when we get back to the tents, and be sure to drink plenty of water, it'll help. Do you have any other symptoms? Nausea?"

Draco shakes his head and immediately regrets it, groaning again.

"C'mon, let's call it an afternoon. I think they've had about enough anyway." Potter chuckles and Draco looks over at his friends, who have apparently gone from resting to something between cuddling and snogging, and he laughs in spite of his headache. "Good to know some things have stayed the same." Potter says this last quietly, and he meets Draco's eyes. "Although it's also good to know some things haven't."

He puts out a hand and Draco reaches up to take it, just as he had the night before. Potter pulls him up with a murmured admonishment to go slowly so as not to disturb his head any worse, and when Draco reaches his feet, he's _sure_ Potter holds on just a little longer than necessary, just as he had the night before. When he does release Draco's hand and turn towards camp, calling to Ron and Hermione that they'll meet them for dinner in a bit, he smiles shyly at Draco, and once again, Draco finds himself smiling back and following Potter back to the tents.

Dinner is a good deal easier still that night, and they all chat amiably throughout the meal, even going so far as to talk a bit about what some of their friends have been up to and about who's teaching at Hogwarts now. They part for bed in the same way they did the night before, with the very notable exception of the quick kiss Hermione presses to Potter's cheek with her whispered, "It's good to see you, Harry."

Potter flushes and smiles, looking abashed but grateful, and he grins at Draco as they make their way to their tents.

Despite the pleasant afternoon and evening, Draco's head is still sore, and his mind is full of thoughts and questions and wonderings about Harry's strange but not unwelcome behaviour, and he cannot sleep again. He's cast a Silencing Charm, so Ron's snoring is no excuse, but he wonders if maybe Harry will be awake anyway. And then he wonders why, at night when everyone is sleeping and the mountain is the only one to hear them talking, he is suddenly _Harry_ instead of Potter.

This last curiosity drives him from the warmth of his blankets, and he groans softly at the jolt of discomfort that slices through his skull, though it's admittedly duller than earlier. He picks up the bottle of water from the small table next to his bed and steps out into the freezing night air again, knowing that if Harry is awake, it's ill-advised for him _not_ to have water, since the man spent most of dinner trying to turn Draco into a fish with the amount he put in front of him. It was only Draco's small thrill at Potter's concern that kept him from snapping, and he's already so tired of the taste of water that he's vowed never to touch the stuff again.

A soft glow from around the back of a boulder tells Draco he's not the only one awake and he smiles and walks towards the fire with quiet steps.

"Couldn't sleep, Potter?" He asks softly as he nears the small blaze. He's _Harry_ in Draco's head, but he's not sure yet how this night's conversation will go, so he's still _Potter_ out loud. For now.

Potter starts at the sound but doesn't look up when he says, "I rarely sleep, Malfoy. Too many dreams."

Draco sighs and nods to himself. He understands about the dreams. Five years have done nothing to dull the terrifying burn of Fiendfyre, the even more terrifying freeze of the Dark Lord's eyes and touch, and the constant knowledge that, at 17 years old, every moment was a kill-or-be-killed situation, except that Draco was unable to kill anyone.

He goes to take his position across the fire, but Potter's voice stops him. "You probably should sit over here," he says, and does Draco imagine that his voice wavers? "The wind is blowing pretty good if you get away from the boulders."

Harry finally looks up and meets Draco's eyes, and they both look away at the same time, but Draco backtracks to sit on the same side of the fire, though he takes care to leave some distance between them.

Once again they sit quietly, although the silence is not uncomfortable as it had been the night before. It crackles with something that makes Draco's skin itch, but not in an entirely unpleasant way, but he wants to be the one to speak first tonight, so he breaks the silence reluctantly.

"My turn tonight, Potter." He says it quietly, and with no malice or haughtiness in his voice, and so Harry nods, still staring into the flames. "Why are you here?"

Harry smiles and looks up at him from his reclining position on his elbows.

"I should think that would be rather obvious, eh Malfoy?"

Draco laughs at his words because he knew they would come, and waits patiently for Harry to go on, which he finally does.

"After I left, not long at all really, maybe a couple of weeks, I figured out I had no idea where I was going. I told you I didn't really think the whole thing through, and I wasn't exaggerating. "He sighs, but Draco elects to remain silent despite the urge to shout at Harry that he could have come back and everyone would have welcomed him with open arms. He stays quiet partly because he wants to hear Harry's story, and partly because if Harry had come back, Draco probably would be shuffling around alone in the Manor instead of in Africa with his two very unlikely friends and his even more unlikely guide.

"I hopped trains as often as I apparated, sort of floating aimlessly around Europe for a while, and then I ended up in America for a bit. I wandered around for a long time, seeing mountains - they have quite spectacular mountains there - and cities and just generally getting lost in a place that had never heard of Harry Potter, and it was wonderful. I spent a lot of time reading, because I found I liked getting lost in other worlds, especially the ones in Muggle fiction, because they felt like an escape."

Draco eyes him and Harry laughs. "Oh be quiet, Draco, I thought you said your attitude towards Muggles has changed, does that not extend to their literature?"

Draco snorts and shifts a little in the dirt, moving just a bit closer to Harry, who has sat up as he talks, and muttering something about wind when Harry notices.

"Anyway, I was reading one in particular, at the same time I was feeling especially like I should just say sod it all and go home even though it wasn't what I wanted, because I had no idea what I was doing or why. There was this poem in it that seemed to appear at just the right time. And don't judge, Draco, I can see you rolling your eyes at me, it was a good book and frankly there was magic in it that wasn't all that far-fetched, and even you might have been impressed."

Draco bites his tongue and waits, and Potter begins to recite his poem in a voice that makes Draco's heart clench and his brain go to mush in his skull, but he smiles when he hears the words.

_"All that is gold does not glitter,_  
_Not all those who wander are lost;_  
_The old that is strong does not wither,_  
_Deep roots are not reached by the frost."_

Potter stops to take a breath and before he can continue, Draco picks up where he left off, grinning at the look of utter incredulity on the other man's face.

_"From the ashes a fire shall be woken,_  
_A light from the shadows shall spring;_  
_Renewed shall be blade that was broken,_  
_The crownless again shall be king."_

"What?" He says, face a picture of mock-innocence. "I do _read_, Harry, and besides, it has elves and wizards in it, you said so yourself. The author might as well have been a wizard!"

Harry laughs, the smile that came across his face when Draco used his first name growing into a grin.

"Some things really have changed, haven't they?" He gently nudges Draco's shoulder and slides a little closer himself so that the distance between them is nearly closed, and he goes on with his story. "Anyway, it was the line about not all who wander being lost. I was looking for _something_, I just didn't know what yet, but I think part of what I was looking for was permission to just _wander._

"My whole life - literally, my _whole life_ - I had a purpose thrust upon me." Harry reaches up to touch his scar and Draco understands what he means. "For once I just wanted to _be, _without any agenda, and it was like the words gave me permission.

"About the same time I started climbing mountains, and once I started I couldn't seem to stop, because mountains don't care if I'm Harry Potter. A mountain will kill you no matter who you are, and I wanted that anonymity."

He says that last with such sadness that Draco wants to take his hand, but doesn't, because it's silly, and because it probably wouldn't be welcome anyway. But he still really wants to. There's something to that statement, but he's letting Harry tell his own story, not skipping to the end to satisfy his own need to know _everything_ about this new Potter right this second.

"I climbed in the States for a while, and got in with a guiding group there and started going on expeditions. They paid for my travel and I served in a porter capacity of sorts, not really guiding but learning about being a guide. I got to see some pretty amazing places and climb some pretty amazing mountains, and it was maybe the best time of my life up until that point."

He looks at Draco sharply.

"Oh gods, please don't tell Ron and Hermione I said that, they'll think I sound horrid and I don't mean to. I have wonderful memories from Hogwarts and growing up with them, but there was always..."

"Voldemort," Draco chokes out the name, still hating the feel of it on his tongue but knowing that saying it aloud doesn't have the repercussions it once did, though he reaches for his forearm unconsciously when he says it. Harry nods.

"There was always something to fix or someone to save or fight, and I got so tired of fighting." He looks at Draco, and their faces are close enough that the puffs of their breaths meet in the middle before they evaporate on the cold air. "I admire Ron. He's done what I could never do, and it seems he's done it with great success. I hope one of these days I can tell him so."

Draco is touched, and for once he feels he can speak for his peculiar redheaded friend when he says, "You should tell him. He'd be pleased to hear it. He's proud of his work, and he really is very good at it." Draco pauses, not quite surprised at his praise of Ron, but a little surprised at how naturally it came out. Then again, once upon a time it was Harry who was proud of Ron, so perhaps the he understands at that. "Although if you tell him I said that, I'll hex you so hard you'll see stars, rules or no rules."

Harry laughs openly and leans his whole body towards Draco's until their shoulders touch, and Draco closes his eyes for a moment, reveling in the feeling. When Harry's shaking mirth subsides, he doesn't move away, and Draco doesn't dare shift a muscle for fear Harry has only forgotten that it's Draco he's leaning against instead of the rock at their backs.

"Anyway," Harry goes on after a time, voice serious again, "I went on expeditions all over the world. Denali in Alaska, the Vinson Massif in Antarctica, Base Camp at Mount Everest. And here. And all those other mountains were amazing and the places we traveled to were wonderful, but nothing was like this place, and I fell in love. So we started Wanderlust here in 1999, because after my third trip I couldn't bring myself to leave."

"We?" Draco wants to bite his tongue as soon as he says the word, but he can't help his curiosity.

Harry sighs and tenses against his side but doesn't shift away, and Draco inhales with apprehension.

"There was someone..." He breaks off for a second and Draco holds his breath, suddenly fearful of where this is going, but knowing this story will answer one of the most important questions swirling in his brain, and he screams at his body to keep still so Harry will go on. And he does.

"I met him in America climbing the Rockies. He worked for the company I latched onto. Really, he was the one that got them to agree I could join on. He told them I could climb like no one he'd ever seen, and they agreed to take me on at his word."

Draco is listening, he really is, but something in his brain started screaming with relief with the first mention of "he," and he can only hope Harry didn't feel it when his heart leapt into his throat.

"We came here together and he was my partner when I started Wanderlust." Draco doesn't ask for clarification on Harry's use of the word partner. He's pretty certain it has multiple meanings, and he doesn't want Harry to stop talking. "We guided together most of the time, although occasionally he'd go take a job somewhere else. He guided a lot of the big mountains and was well-respected in the community, so it was hard to turn down jobs in places like Nepal or Alaska.

"About two years ago he took a job on Denali, some pompous American wizard who said he'd pay anything for someone to get him to the top. I tried to talk him out of it, it wasn't as though we needed the money after all, but he went anyway."

Draco realises he's gone completely cold; he thinks he knows where this is headed.

"There was an avalanche..."

Harry drops off and before he can realise what he's doing, Draco puts his right hand on Harry's near arm, pushing him up for a second so he can lift his own left arm and wrap it around Harry's shoulders. Harry stiffens for a moment against the embrace, and Draco silently begs him to just give in, just take this small gesture, until finally he relaxes into Draco's side.

"Merlin, Harry, I'm sorry," Draco whispers with a catch in his voice, and Harry is silent, but he slides just a bit closer and Draco tightens his grip on Harry's arm.

They sit there for who knows how long, staring into the fire. Draco's mind darts from sympathy for Harry's loss, to inappropriate joy at that he finally knows Harry is gay, to the fear that now any rejection won't be because Harry doesn't like men, but because he doesn't want Draco. The words that tumble out of his mouth next are probably a reflection of that combination, though he cannot for the life of him figure out what makes him say them aloud.

"When you hexed me sixth year, do you know what the first thought was that I had when I woke up healed?"

Harry gasps and tries to pull out of Draco's grasp, but Draco expected this and clamps down on his shoulder.

"Don't you dare, Harry," he says fiercely, and he's not sure if it's the _Harry_ or the firmness of his grip, but Potter sags into him and he smiles wistfully before he goes on.

"I wished you'd killed me, and I cursed Snape for bringing me back. That was, without question, the worst day of my life up to that point, you know. But for a brief moment, when you walked into the bathroom, I thought perhaps it would be over, and gods, Harry, I was so _grateful._

"I never wanted any of it, not to be a Death Eater, not to serve the Dark Lord, not to be sent to kill Dumbledore, and you _almost_ gave me a way out."

"Draco, I..." Harry's voice is so shaky Draco is sure he's on the verge of tears.

"Quiet, Harry, let me finish. The thing is, I'm glad now you didn't kill me, and not just because I was just a stupid child who didn't know what it meant to die. If you would have killed me, we wouldn't be sitting here just now, would we? And that, in my estimation, would be a great tragedy."

Harry lets out a half-sob, half-laugh as the last words tumble out of Draco's mouth in a rush, and Draco smiles again, resting his head on Harry's. Because he is _Harry_ now.

He doesn't know how much time passes, but at some point he hears Harry's voice softly prodding him from a drowsy, almost-asleep state.

"If you fall asleep out here, you're likely to catch your death. Go to bed, you need the rest if you're not feeling well."

Draco elects to stay quiet, trying to keep his breathing even. He knows he's being silly, but he'd just as soon stay right here with Harry and risk "catching his death" than go back to the lonely warmth of his tent, although he thinks Harry's recent revelations are a little to new and a little too raw to say so out loud. He feels Harry chuckle lightly against him and his lips twitch in a smile he tries to hide.

"Draco, I know you aren't sleeping." Harry's voice is still soft and a little playful, and it tugs at the _curlsmolder_ in Draco's gut. "If you don't get up and you _do_ catch your death, we can't do this again tomorrow."

Draco's eyes fly open and he turns his head to look into Harry's upturned face. He's smiling softly, and his voice matches the look in his eyes: gentle but with a hint of mischief. Draco's heart jumps in his chest and he feels a stupid grin threatening to break across his face.

"And _that_," Harry says very softly, almost in a whisper, "would be a very great tragedy in _my_ estimation."

The stupid grin that Draco only barely managed to suppress before breaks across his face and Harry grins back for a moment before he extricates himself from Draco's side and stands. He puts out the now-expected hand and drags Draco up, and he holds it for too long, this time for so long there's no question about what he's doing.

"Try to sleep, it'll help your head." He turns, extinguishing the fire with a wandless wave of his hand. "And Draco?"

Draco arches an eyebrow, still smiling.

"Thank you for...well, thank you." Harry's smile is sheepish but appreciative, and it warms Draco from the inside out despite the bitter chill in the night air, and he finds himself humming as he walks lightly, headache forgotten, back to his tent.


	6. Chapter Five

_My thanks to all of you for reading and commenting, and to the usual suspects, who know who they are._

_Many of the anecdotal details contained herein are mine, though if you take the path to the top of Africa, your mileage may vary. All fictional elements referred to herein belong to their respective owners. Harry Potter is Rowling's. No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

_

Draco knows he will drift off to sleep far more easily than he did the previous night after he crawls back into his bed beneath the tower, the happy buzz in his chest at Harry's parting words humming and twisting and simultaneously soothing and exciting him.

_If you catch your death, we can't do this again tomorrow..._

That Harry is apparently looking as forward to another night by the fire as Draco is sends him nearly into giggles. He feels like a giddy schoolboy and knows it's a little inappropriate and a little premature, but he allows himself the indulgence for just a few moments in the safe cover of darkness, for as long as the smell of conjured fire smoke is still in his nostrils and the outside of his sleeping sack is still a bit chilly to the touch from the night air.

When he awakens the next morning, he smiles immediately as he stretches beneath the mountain of blankets, his good mood only slightly tempered by the still-present pounding in his head. Ron sticks his head in, arching an eyebrow in a remarkably similar manner to Draco's own go-to expression and Draco has to stifle a smirk at how much they all have rubbed off on one another in the last five years in one small way or another.

"You getting up for breakfast, Highness, or did you think we might just carry you to the next camp on your bed?"

"Don't know, Weasley," Draco says. "Is that an option? Wasn't in the brochure, I'm sure I would have noticed."

Ron grins and puts out his tongue, and Draco throws a pillow at him, laughing. Merlin, if someone had told him five years ago that he'd be sharing a tent with the Weasel on the side of a mountain in Africa, he'd have hexed them for sure. If the same someone had said they'd be laughing and acting like utter children while an amused Granger looked on from the doorway, he probably would have thrown at least one Unforgivable, if not two at once.

He looks fondly at the two of them as Hermione drags Ron out of the tent by the hand, calling to Draco to "get his lazy, Pureblood backside out of that bed" or she'll Vanish his blankets _and_ his clothes, and he can see how he likes walking to the glacier in his shorts. The knowledge that Hermione is rather skilled with a Vanishing charm actually motivates him to get up and dress, chuckling.

Draco heads for the cooking tent with a knot of nervous excitement in his chest, which he tries very hard to quell with stern admonitions against getting his own hopes up. He can't discount that the fire and the empty night and the knowledge that no one else is awake for miles creates a fragile sense of comfort that seems so much more delicate in the harsh sunlit morning. He steps into the tent with a mild sense of trepidation, but is pleased to see Harry, Ron, and Hermione sitting comfortably and chatting about the day and the weather and the climb to the crater that will follow tomorrow.

They all look up at him when he comes in, but his eyes go straight to Potter's face, wondering if he'll go back to being _Potter_ this morning, or if he really is _Harry_ now, and holding his breath as he searches for the answer. Potter rises from his chair across the table and turns away from Draco, and Draco chews his lip worriedly. Despite the overall feeling of excited possibility that he'd felt by the time he drifted off to sleep the night before, he can't put aside the stab of pain he feels for Potter's loss. Draco suspects that after it happened, Potter probably shut down completely and dedicated himself entirely to his work, and he wonders, not without a little bit of self-insertion into his guess, if one more devastating loss in Harry's life just made him think he was meant to be alone.

Draco can relate, although he thought he deserved it as punishment for the crimes he carried out at the Dark Lord's bidding. He reaches up absently and rubs at the spot on his inner forearm where he wears his permanent reminder of those crimes. Although he doesn't look at it that way now, as much as he sees it as a symbol of a goodness he never thought existed in the people who look past it and see _him_ now.

Ron and Hermione, who by all rights should still hate him for the way he treated them in school and for his association with a group of people who hurt them badly and killed people they loved, sit only a few steps away, smiling and laughing and including him in their jokes and their stories and their lives. The rest of the Weasleys have done the same, much to Draco's very great surprise, accepting him into their search for Potter with more ease than he'd ever imagined. And now he looks at Arthur and Molly with a fondness he never thought he could feel for parental figures other than his own mother and perhaps Severus Snape once.

He has built relationships with Neville Longbottom and Luna Lovegood (who really is as Loony as her nickname, but he actually likes her all the more for her eccentricities), and has drinks with Thomas and Finnegan and that lunatic Lavender Brown with Hermione and Ron fairly regularly, and all of it continues to shock him. But he revels in it, feeling normal for the first time in his life in spite of the black lines that stain his forearm.

Hermione sees his fingers gripping his arm in what he knows is a familiar gesture, and she reaches up from her seat to put her hand over his and looks at him questioningly.

"You all right?" She asks quietly, although Ron hears her and turns to see his response too, and Draco nods quickly, a slightly watery smile on his face.

Impulsively - bloody _Harry_ must be rubbing off on him, because Draco Malfoy never did anything impulsively in his life - he turns his hand over under Hermione's and squeezes her fingers.

"I'm glad we did this," he says simply, but he knows they'll understand the depth of his words, and they do. Hermione's small intake of breath and Ron's widened eyes tell him they know just how much he appreciates being included, and not just on this insane adventure.

Because they are his friends and they know him, they don't make a scene, and with one more squeeze of Hermione's hand he turns back to regard Potter, who is standing uncertainly a few steps away, watching the exchange with a look that Draco thinks is made up of interest and perhaps a little bit of envy.

"G'morning Draco," he says quietly, looking at Draco more closely now, and Draco can feel the same searching gaze on himself. "Coffee?"

Draco takes the proffered mug, smelling the bitter liquid and, more importantly, the sticky sweetness of the copious amounts of sugar he likes, and he smiles and melts a little, and with that first heavenly sip, he knows the answer to his own question.

"Morning Harry," he says, ignoring the _completely_ unsubtle gaping from his friends in favor of basking in the glow of Harry's shy smile. "And thank you."

He holds up the mug in salute and Harry nods, and they sit to finish their breakfast.

The walk is short again today, perhaps two hours, though the temperatures have turned cold and they're slowed at least twice by snow squalls that blow through the rocky landscape in a hurry, leaving nothing in their wake but three very cold hikers and Harry, who seems unaffected.

Of course he wouldn't be; he does this all the time.

"You can see the glacier now," he says over his shoulder and points, and even Draco can't help but catch his breath, cold or no cold. The wall of ice and snow that looms ahead of them must stand five or more metres tall, and it clings to the rocky hills like a spell that's been cast over them. "We'll camp just there, in that cut you can see in the ice. Good shelter from the wind."

Harry, of course, strides along as he speaks, never breaking step and never losing breath. Meanwhile Draco, Hermione and Ron, all of whom keep fairly fit, are wheezing and huffing in a most undignified manner, and Draco is sure there is an invisible mountain creature squeezing his chest with every step. He considers asking Harry if _that_ is part of the tour, but decides against snark only because speaking requires entirely too much effort.

He is _tired_, and as much as he's looking forward to another night by the fire with Harry, he's fairly certain he'd let Weasley's sister hit him with a Bat Bogey hex for a decent night's sleep. Or a bath, he thinks crossly as he runs fingers through matted hair. He'd give just about anything for a comb and some water right about now, and perhaps for the first time in his life, it isn't just because he cares what his hair looks like. Frankly he'd be fine if he looked like a Hippogriff if he could just wash the dirt and grime away.

As if reading his mind, Harry turns around again and says, "Since the glacier provides so much water right at camp, you can wash up a bit when we get there if you'd like. The water's clean, just _really_ cold, but it's pretty brilliant really. And no, before you ask, I'm not wasting fuel to heat it. The Muggles do it this way, you can too."

His voice is almost mischievous and Draco sees his lips curve into a smile, but he also knows Harry means it, and that any pleasure he'll get from washing will probably be cancelled out by the fact that he'll be bloody freezing for hours, but he doesn't care. He feels like it's been weeks since he's been clean instead of days, and he'll stand the cold if it kills him.

Ron and Hermione appear to have the same idea, because their snail's pace increases minutely, and they seem to be looking almost hungrily at the glacier ahead, Hermione tugging at hair that has gotten more and more out of control in over the course of the week.

"I can show you a bit about ice-climbing too, Ron, if you like?" Harry's question is tentative, though Draco knows it needn't be, and Ron nods vigourously. They all smile, thinking the others can't see them, and Draco is sure he's not the only one who notices.

They reach the glacier a while later, exchanging few words, and Draco finds himself watching Harry walk, counting the other man's steps today instead of his own. The rhythm is soothing and the view is...well, it's very evident that Harry's lifestyle keeps him more than fit. The walk is cold and windy, and frankly not very picturesque anymore otherwise, because it appears that not a single plant grows this high, so the landscape looks more or less like what Draco imagines the moon must look like on the surface.

The glacier - Arrow Glacier, Harry says - looms even larger at close distance. Harry is right, the wind is completely blocked by the wall of ice, and when the sun peeks through the clouds Draco almost feels warm. He elects not to join Harry and Ron in their attempts to climb the thing; as far as he's concerned, climbing something that's slippery by its very nature is foolish, and they're asking to end up face down in the dirt.

And he will laugh when they do.

Draco lounges in a chair, feet splayed in front of him and head tipping back occasionally to allow the warm sun to heat his face. Watching Harry skitter up the ice face is no less enjoyable today, with his trousers rolled to the knees and sleeves pushed up his forearms again. He watches in fascination as Harry kicks pointy claws that stick out from his boots into the ice and then places enough weight on one to make his calf flex and Draco's mouth goes a little dry. Harry swings one arm over his head, punching the extremely terrifying-looking ax he's holding through the surface of the ice and then pulls himself up. Besides looking rather difficult and strenuous, which is admirable in itself, the motion makes the corded muscles in Harry's forearms ripple in a way that makes it impossible for Draco to look away.

It's a bit of a dance, Draco thinks, between Harry and his gear and the ice. Swing arm, pull up, kick foot, repeat. Harry looks graceful, which is not a word Draco ever thought he would apply to Saint Potter, not even this new version of him. The boy was such a disaster at the Yule Ball in their fourth year that Draco would honestly have thought he might run his own hand through with that ax, but he's really quite handy with it.

"You're enjoying this." Hermione's voice is wry and Draco's mouth curves into an involuntary smile before he can help himself. She knows him well, he reflects, and is maybe more than a little grateful not to have to explain at least this to her.

She's dragging a chair of her own through the dirt, no doubt wishing for a Summoning charm right about now, and she's breathing as if she just finished a duel rather than walking ten metres from her tent, but the slightest effort seems monumental up here. When she reaches Draco's side, she flops into the chair in a decidedly exhausted manner, but she's smiling.

"What, and you mean to tell me you aren't?" Draco makes his tone has haughty as possible as he points to where Weasley is copying Harry's movements with a surprising amount of success, and Hermione's eyes flare with appreciation and something else he prefers not to name so he doesn't need to ask for Obliviation later.

Draco snorts and Hermione giggles, and they both begin to laugh and then cough as the laughter begins to conflict with the utter lack of oxygen. When their spasms finally die down - not before they earn very puzzled looks from the Harry and Ron - they sit in companionable quiet for a moment before Hermione speaks again.

"Merlin, I'm _tired," _she says with a huff. "I suppose I didn't expect this to be easy, but I never expected to be so tired, and we still have to climb _that_!"

Draco doesn't bother to turn his head, already having spent plenty of time this afternoon eyeing the very steep, very high, very long path up and over the crest of the ridge at the top of the mountain.

"Is that why you haven't ambushed Potter yet?" The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them, but Hermione's very notable lack of confrontation on the subject of Harry's whereabouts in the last five years has been on his mind. Especially in the past couple of days, since he's learned so much about Harry after everyone else has gone to bed.

She sighs and smiles a little, and then after a moment and to Draco's very great surprise, she nods.

"I want to ask him, Draco. I want to ask him so many things. I want to shout or hit him or throw a rock at his ridiculous head!" She crosses her arms and tries very hard to glare at Harry, and Draco thinks she almost has it before Harry claps Ron on the shoulder as he comes down from an icy ledge. Ron's grin splits his face and Hermione's softens instantly at his pleased look.

"He's happy here, isn't he?" She eyes Draco expectantly, and he tries to look back innocently, feigning ignorance at the answer to her question. "Oh stop, I know you've been talking to him. You think you're the only one who can't sleep through Ron's wretched snoring? I heard you leave the tent the night before last and I was going to follow you, but then I saw..."

She trails off and looks back at Harry and Draco closes his eyes. Of course she saw. Hermione, his irritatingly observant friend - probably his _best_ friend if he's honest with himself, because she'd brought him in first, and it was because of her that everyone else eventually came 'round - never misses anything. _She_ should have been an Auror. She'd be the only person in the department who'd give Ron a run for his money; Draco would wager a tidy sum on that.

He is grateful that she saw their first fireside talk, the one where he sat across the flames from Harry and looked pensive, instead of the second one. He's not sure how she might have reacted to the two of them sitting so close together, huddled against the wind and the cold and the sadness of Harry's loss, and he's grateful that moment is still theirs alone.

"He actually wanted to know what _I_ was doing here," Draco muses, eyes once again on Harry and Ron. Well, mostly on Harry. "With you two."

"Oh?" Draco can _feel_ the questions buzzing around in her head, but she's waiting in an uncharacteristically patient way, so he relents.

"Yes, and if you must know, I think I shocked him by just how much I had to say on the subjects of you and Ron and," Draco rolls his eyes and takes a deep breath, because this is going to be one of those moments and he always has to prepare himself, "just how different my life has been for having the two of you in it the last few years."

He risks a sideways glance at Hermione, and just as he expected, she's beaming at him with a mix of pride and surprise. He allows her a small smile in return, not enough to encourage her but enough to convey the sincerity of what he's saying.

"He's a bit jealous, I think," Draco goes on, "or maybe jealous is the wrong word. Too malicious. Envious, perhaps?"

Hermione nods slowly. "It was always the three of us at school, and then..." She trails off again, and Draco bites his tongue so he doesn't ruin the moment with a comment about her inability to finish sentences. "Is that all you talked about then? You don't know where he's been or what he's been doing or _why_?"

Draco exhales slowly. "I do, actually, at least some of that." She looks at him sharply. "I didn't sleep well last night either." He offers by way of explanation and she almost snorts.

"He's been here, mostly," Draco begins. "Wanderlust is his company and has been from the start. It seems he has a bit of a thing for mountains in general and this one in particular. Something to do with a mountain not caring who he is and being willing to kill him anyway."

He's being intentionally vague; he mostly knows what Harry means, but he secretly can't bring himself to break the spell of their fires. Which he knows is silly, since it's only been two nights, but those hours aren't his alone to give away. Still, Hermione deserves to know what's driving Harry, at least a little, even though Draco suspects Harry will still be subjected to a stern interrogation before they leave Africa.

"Look, Hermione, he's been through some things since he left too. I'm not excusing him, hell, I don't even understand all of it yet." She's looking at him expectantly and he sighs and squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, silently begging Harry's forgiveness for telling a story that isn't his to tell. "He came here with someone, and they started Wanderlust together, and then the bloke had to go off and get himself killed in some bloody avalanche in Alaska - no, Hermione, I'm not exaggerating - and now Wanderlust is all he has I think. And this mountain. And although it's a little bit quieter than you, I doubt the mountain is as good for company. So while he's been here alone and probably trying to cope with something that probably makes some of the war pale by comparison, I've been off with the two of you making a pretty decent go at life, and I think he doesn't know what to do with that."

Draco eyes Hermione from the corner of his eye. He knows it takes nearly all the restraint she possesses not to jump up and throw her arms around his neck, but she settles for a very undignified but admittedly endearing squeak and a claw-like grip on his forearm. With good reason, he supposes, with as stingy as he can be with out-and-out kind words.

He puts his other hand over hers for a moment and squeezes, still not wanting to make a scene or draw too much attention from Ron and Harry. But he's had a lot of time to think in the past few days, and something about the wistful look that comes over Harry's face when he watches Ron and Hermione when they aren't looking compels Draco to acknowledge his own good fortune.

"I didn't...he isn't..." Hermione squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, composing herself against what Draco suspects is such a complicated mess of thoughts that he almost has to close his own to block out its very existence. "Gods, poor Harry. Should I -"

"No!" Draco is vehement, though he manages to keep his voice low. "Hermione, he trusted me. I only told you because honestly, I think we might get some answers before this is all over, but he's, well, a bit _fragile_. I'm going to tell him I told you, and I don't think he'll like it much, but I hope he'll understand. I know he misses you both, and I don't think he'll mind me saying that much. He just started to _wander_, and I think he thought it was too late to come back, so he found another way in life."

She's nodding carefully, and Draco thinks he might be getting through.

"I don't want to leave here with this thing unfinished, alright?" He says this almost in a whisper, because every time he thinks about the idea of leaving Africa and Harry he wants to go hide in his tent and cry like a child. They've waited and searched for so long, and finally he's _here_, and he's every bit the man Draco thought he might be, but he's a world away from London and Draco's life, and it hurts.

"I'll wait then," Hermione says, and Draco is reminded for the millionth time why despite her sometimes-irritating tendencies towards being an insufferable know-it-all (and he doesn't really find those that irritating, despite what he often says), she is perhaps the wisest person of their age he's ever met.

Of course in this instance he might be thinking she's wise because she's decided to do exactly what he wants, but he decides not to press the issue. It is to Hermione's great credit that she doesn't say a word about Draco's unintentional outing of Harry in the process of telling his story, but then again Hermione always has been perceptive, and Draco supposes that the news that Harry's gay is probably a little less noteworthy in her mind than the continued shock that he's _here._

From the moment the words that give even a vague synopsis of Harry's story left his lips he wished he could take them back, but he owes Hermione this much. Merlin, he owes her and Ron far more than this, he thinks, as the terrifying image of himself shuffling aimlessly and alone around a dark Malfoy Manor drifts through his head unbidden. He was on his way to being the man in that image by the time Hermione dragged him through the Floo to Grimmauld Place five years ago. His friends were dead or in Azkaban or in hiding. His father was in Azkaban as well, and his mother's complete withdrawal from society was serving to do nothing more than fuel Draco's own.

Hermione and Ron probably saved his life dragging him from place to place on the hunt for Harry. The story might not be his to tell, but he's heard it, and his discomfort at keeping his friends completely shut out outweighs even his fear of Harry's reaction.

_Merlin, when did I become such a bloody Gryffindor?_

"I think," she says after a moment, "that he'll understand."

Draco looks at her hopefully and then back at the glacier, watching Ron and Harry trade places again on the ice. Ron is rather a natural at this apparently, much to his delight. And to Harry's, Draco thinks, noting the easy smile on Harry's face as he points out places for Ron to put the ax into the icy face, talking animatedly.

"It's been a long time since I've seen that," she murmurs, watching Ron and Harry.

He considers her words, trying to imagine what this must be like for her. Draco is convinced the only reason they both made it through that first year is the strength of their relationship. He's never seen two people more dedicated to one another. He thinks perhaps this is because everything about their life as lovers is rooted first in a friendship that the Dark Lord himself couldn't break. He's seen plenty of partnerships he admires over the years, but nothing like the bond between Ron and Hermione.

Ron was devastated when Harry disappeared. He raged, he pouted, he lashed out, he even blamed himself.

"I was the first bloody friend he ever had. In his _life,_ 'Mione!" He'd ranted one night. "I should have seen that something was so wrong he couldn't stay!"

She'd listened and nodded and soothed and said all the right things until he calmed down, and Draco realised he'd never seen any two people work in such perfect harmony in his 18 years. He was fascinated and envious, and he was drawn to them in spite of himself. So much hate and misery and pain had painted the recent years of his life, and the sharp contrast of Ron and Hermione's unwavering devotion to one another against all that darkness was like a magnet.

Ron had came 'round eventually, of course, long before they gave up hope of finding Harry, but he was always a little more reserved after that night. Open displays of joy from Ron, apart from those related to Hermione, were just about as limited as open displays of affection from Draco. So for Hermione to finally see such carefree happiness on his face after so long, and in the presence of the very person who caused it to be in absence, must be a painful sort of relief.

But she loves him, and his happiness makes her happier than even the grandest library on earth, so he knows she's pleased, and Draco smiles and squeezes her hand again.

They sit watching for a bit longer, until finally Ron and Harry give up. Ron is talking excitedly at Hermione, something about pitons and crampons and axes and Draco chuckles at his enthusiasm, but his eyes are on Harry, a thousand thoughts swirling in his mind. Will he be angry? Will he forgive Draco? Does it even matter?

But his worries are swept aside with one dazzling smile that lights green eyes and crinkles tanned skin and spears straight through Draco to set the _curlsmolder_ ablaze.

"C'mon you two," Harry says to Draco and Hermione, "the sun's going to go down soon and you don't want wet hair in the dark."

Draco, suddenly remembering Harry's promise of water to wash up properly for the first time in more days than he cares to think about, all but leaps from his chair to follow.

A half an hour later, he's watching Ron squirm and yelp as Hermione pours glacier water over his head and clutching a bottle of shampoo that they were assured at the gear shop was "completely biodegradable and organic," which apparently meant something to Ron and Hermione, so Draco had nodded right along with them. And he's rethinking just how much he cares if he washes his hair until there is a temperature control faucet and a shower head involved, when Harry walks up behind him and places a surprising and warm hand on his shoulder.

"It's not as bad as all that. Come on, I'll do yours so you don't have to wait. It'll take Ron forever to quit whinging and wash Hermione's."

Draco turns in surprise, making Harry's hand drop. Harry Potter is offering to wash Draco's hair? Granted this is _not_ how this particular fantasy might have played out if Draco had his druthers, but he thinks perhaps he can even withstand frigid glacier water for the chance to feel those fingers in his hair. Particularly after watching Harry use them to grip at almost-invisibly tiny ledges of rock and ice in the last two days.

He feels his face redden at that thought and clears his throat. "Oh very well, Harry, let's get this over with."

Harry smirks, clearly not believing Draco's feigned disinterest anymore than he himself does, and pushes Draco into a nearby camp chair.

"Tip your head back," he says, and Draco obeys, looking straight up into Harry's unwavering gaze. "Keep it tipped back. I assure you that you don't want this water dripping inside your clothes."

Draco makes a strangled sound as Harry gently pours the first drops of water onto his scalp and squeezes his eyes shut.

"Merlin, Potter! What the bloody hell?"

"Be quiet, you overgrown child. It's glacier water. What did you expect?" Harry is laughing, and when Draco peels his eyes open, he's peering right over Draco's face.

"You and your stupid no magic rule. If my scalp freezes and all my hair falls out, I'm holding you responsible!" Draco tries to sound petulant, and he almost succeeds, but Harry's face is so mesmerizing he can't quite hold the bite in his tone.

"Be still or you'll get soap in your eyes."

The stream of frigid water stops flowing and Draco's scalp tingles, but the sensation from the bitter chill of the air mixing with his cold, wet hair is obliterated in a flash when he feels Harry's fingers slide over his head and begin to knead at his scalp. Harry's nails graze his skin as he lathers Draco's hair and his hands are so strong and sure and Draco groans a little before he can help himself.

Harry laughs. "Not so bad by half, is it?"

Draco answers with something that sounds very ineloquently like "mrmph," and Harry laughs again, but Draco doesn't care if Harry wants to laugh at him or mock him or ridicule him in front of the Wizengamot, just so long as he doesn't stop those amazing fingers. He feels tension drain out of the muscles around his face and in his neck, and he's pleased to notice that even the headache that has persisted so strongly over the past couple of days has retreated to a dull throb.

"Been a while since I've done this," Harry says a little more softly, and when Draco opens his eyes to look up at him, he notices most of the smile has slid from Harry's face and he's looking wistful and far away somehow. "Good to know I haven't lost my touch."

Draco doesn't think that last was meant to be heard, and his heart flip flops in his chest as he thinks about Harry's meaning.

"You mean you don't..." Draco blurts before he can stop himself, but manages to cut off the idiotic question midway through. He wants to ask if Harry doesn't do this for all his clients, but clearly that's what the man just said. Which means this is something Harry used to do for someone who_ wasn't_ a client.

Harry chuckles, but there's not much mirth in it. "No, Draco, this isn't exactly in the brochure, is it?"

"Then why?" Draco realises he's starting to sound disturbingly like Granger did while they were sitting by the glacier, and he vows to start asking _whole_ questions again, just as soon as Harry's fingers stop driving all sense from his head. He's always liked having his hair stroked or washed; it's soothing and peaceful, but in this instance it's also surprisingly intimate, and seems all the more so with Harry's confession that it's not something he does often.

"Well, you're three, aren't you? I didn't see any sense in you sitting around waiting on those two." Harry's face takes on a mischievous smile as he flicks his eyes towards Ron and Hermione. "Besides, they look like they've forgotten there's another living soul on this mountain. Be a shame to have to interrupt them."

Draco smiles at the thought. He doesn't need to look up to know what Harry means.

"They're really happy, aren't they?" The wistful look is back again.

"They really are," Draco says, fondness creeping into his voice. "They have their moments. Some things haven't changed at all since school really. She still scolds him when he does something particularly stupid; he still makes fun of her for being bookish. And they have some really spectacular rows, but mostly they're about the best match I've ever seen."

He's a little surprised at himself for saying so much, but then again this is Harry, who'd comforted Hermione while Ron chased after Lavender Brown (Hermione told him that story over one too many Firewhiskeys at a pub during the search for Harry), and he'd been there for all their fights for the first seven years they knew each other. And he'd been there for their first kiss, and when Hermione cried because they left Ron behind while they looked for the Sword of Gryffindor. Harry will understand.

And he does, it seems, nodding solemnly. "I'm happy for them. I wish," he takes a deep breath and drops his eyes from Draco's. "I wish I'd been there to see them together all this time. Maybe I should have been."

Draco doesn't know what to say. Part of his brain is screaming that Harry is right, he should have been there, and how could he walk out on them like that, but the other part is telling him, probably quite correctly, that the man standing over him would probably not have turned out the same if he'd stayed at Grimmauld Place and become a Ministry puppet.

So he says nothing and goes back to concentrating on Harry's fingers in his hair until he feels Harry smooth the excess suds out and remove his hands. When the trickle of water hits his forehead this time, it's followed immediately by a soothing palm that helps to rinse the rest of the soap out of his hair, and it's so calming in spite of the cold that Draco hums out loud and lets his eyes flutter closed again with the pleasure of it.

"Besides," Harry says out of the blue. "I knew you'd like this. Why would I let anyone else do it?"

It takes Draco a moment to remember that he'd asked Harry why he was doing this when it clearly brought back what Draco can only assume is a flood of memories about the lover Harry lost. When he connects the words and the meaning behind him, his eyes snap open to seek out Harry's, and he notices a faint blush staining the other man's cheeks.

"I'm glad you didn't," Draco says without a trace of flirtation in his voice. His earnestness surprises him, but he feels a little like Harry's given him a gift, sharing something so personal with him, and he doesn't want to cheapen it.

Harry smiles and puts down the bucket he's been using for a pitcher. He towels Draco's hair so thoroughly it's almost dry, and Draco revels in the press of hands and fingers into his scalp one more time.

"Feel better?" Harry asks as Draco gets up from the chair and stretches, noting with some surprise that he almost feels like he's had a nap. Or a good shag. He feels his lips quirk and looks at his shoes for a moment to compose himself.

"Good as new," he says, trying, with limited success, to feign a casual tone. When that fails, he goes back to earnest; it seems more appropriate anyway. "Thank you, Harry."

"You're welcome," Harry says, a look of real pleasure coming across his face. Draco wonders how often Harry gets to do something for someone just for the sake of doing it, rather than because, as Harry puts it, it's in the brochure. Probably not often, at least not since he's been alone.

Draco thinks perhaps he should ask if Harry wants the gesture reciprocated, and Harry anticipates the question with a shake of his head and a run of his hand through his own hair.

"I'm good, it's not like it does any good anyway. Once a bird's nest, always a bird's nest." He grins. "Let's go get supper going. I think those two might need a moment or two alone."

His grin turns to a smirk as they look at Ron and Hermione, who are settled together in one chair with their foreheads pressed together, still looking as though they are the only two people on earth. Draco snorts and nods, and they set off towards the cook tent together.

"Besides," Harry says and looks sideways at Draco as they walk, "I could use some tea to warm up. Probably going to be cold by the fire tonight, you know."

And just like that Draco knows he won't be sleeping much tonight, and as he runs his hand over his still-tingling scalp, he realises he's never looked so forward to being awake.


	7. Chapter Six

_My thanks to all of you for reading and commenting, and to the usual suspects, who know who they are. This doesn't replace your usual Tuesday or Wednesday update; I'm posting an extra because I'm at some surreal conference center this week. There's logic somewhere, I promise. I hope you find some of the answers you've been waiting for in the chapter below.  
_

_Many of the anecdotal details contained herein are mine, though if you take the path to the top of Africa, your mileage may vary. All fictional elements referred to herein belong to their respective owners. Harry Potter is Rowling's. No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

_

Draco doesn't even bother to feign sleep as he lies in his bed later that night. He murmurs good night to Ron and Hermione and tries to ignore the latter's knowing wink and suppressed grin as she shepherds Ron off to bed. It occurs to Draco that he has no idea how long Harry sat by his magic fire before he showed up the last two nights, and he wonders how long he should wait.

He's tapping his fingers idly on his chest and determinedly _not_ looking at the strangely-glowing Muggle watch he's been wearing since they set off up the trail when he notices a shadow slowly crossing the wall of his tent. A suspiciously _Harry-_shaped shadow. And he's fairly certain that no one _has_ to make as much noise in the dirt as the person _casting_ the Harry-shaped shadow. Draco smiles.

_Thank you, Harry_, he thinks as he rises and puts on what he feels like is every article of clothing he's brought with him and picks up the sleeping sack again for good measure. The air this high is clear and frigid, and he hopes against hope that he'll be out in it for a while. He has no intention of letting the cold drive him away one minute too soon.

Draco trudges out into the night, nerves abuzz. He can still feel Harry's fingers in his hair, still see green eyes boring down into his from just above his head, but he can also hear his own voice telling Hermione secrets that aren't his to share, and he's afraid. Afraid Harry won't understand, or that he will but will still be angry. Afraid that he'll shatter this fragile semblance of _something_ that they seem to be constructing out of cold nights and warm fires and quiet words.

He walks straight to Harry and his fire without preamble, admiring the way the flickering blaze lights Harry's face against the glacier wall. There are no other hikers at this camp; Harry told them earlier that the route splits at Lava Tower, and that a lot of expeditions prefer not to hike the Western Breach route they're on. Evidently, many of them elect instead to avoid the crumbling wall of rock looming over Draco's shoulder in favor of an overnight hike that allows them to reach the summit without what Harry calls "scrambling." Draco wanted very badly to ask Weasley what on earth possessed him to think that _they_ should _scramble_ anywhere, but bit his tongue at the amused expression on Harry's face.

"Do you sit out here all night?" Draco asks by way of greeting, his voice quiet and careful in the dark stillness.

Harry smiles wistfully. "You know I don't always. I put the fire out last night and the night before when you went to bed, didn't I?"

Draco pulls a face at him and stands uncertainly by the fireside. Harry studies him for a moment before he looks pointedly at the ground at his side and speaks.

"Well, have a seat then. And since you're asking, do you not sleep either?"

He walks around the fire and sits carefully next to Harry, keeping a bit of distance between them and drawing his sleep sack up around his shoulders against the cold.

"I do, normally," Draco says after a while, considering. "I suppose I don't always sleep especially _well_, but who among us that was there can say he does?"

Harry nods and Draco squeezes his eyes together, drawing on every ounce of courage he ever wished to possess. When he speaks, his voice is small and a little tinny, and he thinks he sounds a bit like he's on the end of one of those Muggle portable telephones Ron finds so fascinating.

"You asked me the other night what I'm doing here," he says, and Harry looks at him curiously. "I wasn't completely honest with you. Or rather I didn't tell the whole truth, and I should have."

He shifts positions so he can reach into the pocket of his trousers. Harry watches him, expression filled with confusion, and Draco thinks he would smile if he wasn't so nervous. Harry is rather nice-looking when he's baffled.

He pulls a well-worn, creased piece of parchment from his pocket and hands it to Harry, who opens it and looks back at Draco with a look of shocked bewilderment.

"This is my letter," he says slowly, and Draco looks down at the ground, waiting for comprehension to dawn in the other man's voice. He doesn't have to wait long. "I don't...have you been carrying this around all this time?"

Draco nods, face burning. He's running through the words on the parchment in his mind, letting the familiar words wash over the embarrassment he's feeling under Harry's scrutinizing gaze.

_Dear Hermione & Ron,_

_By the time you read th-_

_I'm sorry I have to go-_

___I can't stay here anymore. I'm tired of parties and galas and medals and awards, and I'm tired of funerals and crying. I used to think when the war was over and Voldemort was dead, I could go back to being just Harry, but I realized I don't even know who Harry is, and that terrifies me more than fighting Death Eaters ever did._

___I've been on a path I didn't choose my whole life, and I can't stay on it another minute. I can't quite explain what I mean - ask Malfoy, I bet he could tell you a thing or two about living a life he didn't ask for - I just know I can't be the Boy Who Lived anymore._

___I'm going to look for just Harry, to see if I can figure out who I'm supposed to be now without the Ministry and the Prophet and the looks on everyone's faces when they see my scar and hear my name. _P_lease don't come after me, I have to do this by myself. _

_Tell everyone I'll miss-_

___I'm sorry._  
_Harry_

"Malfoy, I don't understand," Harry's tone carries a hint of panic, and Draco doesn't fail to notice Harry's use of his surname.

"I did something today I shouldn't have, Harry," he begins, and Harry's confusion appears to deepen. "I told Hermione about your...about how you came to be here by yourself. I know it wasn't for me to tell and I'm sorry, but you have to let me explain."

He's beginning to babble and he knows it, but he's started this, and he's going to finish it no matter what happens now. He takes a deep breath, terror beginning to well up in his chest as he watches Harry visibly shift away from him, eyes losing the softness Draco has come to associate with this new Harry.

Fuck, he thinks, I can't lose him now, not after we finally found him. After I finally found this.

"I told you that in confidence," Harry says, voice steely, "not so you could tell them and they could feel sorry for me. I'm not a charity case, Malfoy, I chose this life and sometimes it kills people, and after it killed another person I loved, I decided it was just easier not to bother with that anymore. I don't want their pity and I don't want yours, and you had no right!"

Draco cringes at the harsh hiss of Harry's tone, but finds his ire raised at his words.

"Listen, Potter," he says, and Harry's eyes flash dangerously, "I told you what I did because I shouldn't have told Hermione. But she deserves to know. They deserve to know. Not because they'll pity you, you great prat, but because they still care about you even after you walked out on them. And that is what you did, remember? Before you go getting all noble about not wanting pity, you should consider that you're fortunate they care enough for sympathy. Because you. Walked. Out. On. Them."

He spits this last, feeling the muscles in his face twitch with anger on behalf of his friends, although the fire goes out of him almost immediately as he watches Harry's eyes widen and his face twist with shame. He sighs and closes his eyes for a moment, rubbing a hand across his face in an effort to smooth away his indignation.

"Harry," he says very carefully, looking into the other man's eyes and trying to moderate his voice. "You owe them an explanation. You know you do, and the only reason they're not hopping mad that you offered one to me instead is because they're my friends too, and because I think they figure if you're talking to anyone, it's something.

"Now, if you'll let me finish, I did have a point before you started shouting at me with your false assumptions about our friends and their pity."

He waits, cautiously hopeful in spite of the feeling that his stomach may flip over in his gut. Harry blinks at him, but thankfully doesn't move to rise or leave, and Draco takes his continued silence as an invitation to continue.

"When Hermione came to me with that," he points to the letter still in Harry's fingers, "I was...well, I think I was feeling a lot like how you said you were feeling. The days and weeks were running together in an endless mess of trials and funerals and all I could think was that I was eighteen years old and my life was over, because all I'd ever been taught to be was a Malfoy and a Death Eater, and my father was in Azkaban and the Dark Lord was dead. So what the hell was I supposed to do with the rest of my life? It felt like someone petrified me and threw me in the lake outside Hogwarts and all I could do was wait to drown.

"But you left, and you wrote that letter and you thought, somehow, that I might be able to make them understand, and suddenly Hermione bloody Granger showed up in my Floo and wouldn't take no for an answer. She was waving that thing under my nose and insisting I must have known where you were, and of course I didn't, but it was like a lifeline, do you understand? Like someone dragged me out of the water at the last second, and all because you wrote a letter and put my name in it."

Draco stops for a moment, running his hands over his face and rubbing his suddenly-very-tired eyes. He can't bring himself to look at Harry just yet, so he stares intently into the flames.

"I suppose what I'm trying to say is that when you left, you saved my life, and that letter is - or was, until we walked into your office and I saw your face - my way of reminding myself of that."

He finally drags his gaze away from the fire and blinks stinging eyes as he focuses on Harry, who is still looking at him with such an intense frown on his face that Draco thinks very seriously about getting up and running all the way down the mountain and into the Portkey Office immediately just to spare Harry anymore sadness at his hand. He would rather spend a lifetime mending his heart against the loss of what might have been than be the reason for the distress on Harry's face for one more minute.

He's on the verge of rising to do just that when Harry speaks, his voice barely a whisper.

"I thought Hermione might just ask you," he says. "When I wrote this I mean. You were the only other person I knew who really didn't have a choice, or at least not much of one. Although it took me a long time to see it that way."

Harry offers a small, sheepish smile that Draco knows instinctively is the direct result of five years worth of distance from their youthful enmity. Neither of them would have admitted to understanding the other during the fighting, but looking back, Draco thinks they both realize their problem wasn't their differences, but how very much they were alike.

"I was supposed to go to Ministry parties and make speeches and become an Auror and marry Ginny, only I didn't really want any of that, but no one was giving me a choice. I suppose I got overwhelmed."

Draco snorts in spite of himself. At Harry's questioning gaze, he rolls his eyes.

"You fought the Dark Lord while you were underage. More than once. And you organized an entire army of students while we were at school. And a little bit of hero stuff is what overwhelmed you?"

Harry smiles in spite of the lingering tension between them, and the softness comes back into his eyes. Draco can feel his body relax minutely and allows himself the smallest bit of hope that the worst has past and they're still here.

"But that's what I meant about thinking I could get off that path once it was over, you see? I fought Voldemort because he needed fighting and I was the one who was supposed to do it. But once he was dead, I just wanted it all to be over so I could decide for once. Only it never seemed to be over."

Draco nods, knowing exactly what Harry means in spite of the flash of lighthearted teasing he just offered up. Their lives had been decided for them long before they knew there were choices to make, and at eighteen, that was more than Harry could bear. Not to mention his life included an endless parade of public appearances, something that a person on Draco's side was generally spared unless the person in question earned a one-way visit to Azkaban. Even then the interest was fleeting.

Harry, though, would still be enduring the so-called hero stuff if he had stayed, Draco is sure of it.

"You were always better with words than I was," Harry says, and Draco's eyebrows lift just a little in surprise at the compliment. "I thought maybe you could make them understand, if they took the time to ask."

They sit silently for a long time, looking at the fire. After a time, Harry holds the letter back out to Draco, but Draco shakes his head.

"I think you should have it back," he says slowly, his voice thicker than he intends. "You didn't write it as the Saviour of the Wizarding World or the Boy Who Lived, you wrote it as Harry, right?"

Harry nods, brow furrowed.

"So it wasn't the hero Potter that saved me then, was it?"A flicker of understanding appears in Harry's eyes, and Draco sees them take on a decidedly-shiny quality, so he presses on. "It was just Harry. You keep that as your reminder that he wasn't as lost as you thought, it just took some wandering on all our parts to find him."

Harry's exhalation is sudden and harsh, but all the hardness has left his face. Draco isn't certain if the other man will laugh or cry, and if he's being honest, he's teetering dangerously close to the edge of one or the other himself. It's all out there now, or all of it that matters, and they're both still sitting here, and Draco is so grateful and relieved he can hardly sit still.

"Thank you," Harry's whisper is so soft and so ragged that Draco almost doesn't hear it over the merry crackling of the flames in front of them, but he registers that this is the second time in as many nights that Harry has thanked him, and for some reason he's more pleased than he can find words to express.

Even through all the years of wondering and worrying, he's felt he owed Harry something for pulling him out of his post-war spiral, and to have the chance to give him something, anything to express his gratitude makes him smile.

"You're welcome," he whispers back, and they resume their quiet contemplation of the flames as Harry tucks the parchment into his coat pocket carefully. After a moment, he speaks again.

"Harry?"

"Hm?" Harry's tone is absent, and Draco gulps nervously.

"I really am sorry I told Hermione. I just, well, I didn't know what else to do." He holds his breath, hoping he hasn't just sent another wave of ripples across the reclaimed calm of the moment. To his very great surprise, Harry reaches out and covers Draco's hand with his own warm, mittened one and squeezes his fingers briefly.

"I know. It's alright." Harry says softly. "I should have talked to them before we even left, I just..." He trails off, still staring at the flames. "When I come up here, I feel like, I don't know. Like a better version of me. I wanted them to see that instead of fucking it up with blundered explanations before we even got started."

Draco nods. He wouldn't have accepted that explanation when they started out, but something about Harry's ridiculous mountain does bring out some of his finer points, and he knows he's not the only one who's noticed. He's sure Harry wouldn't have had such success rebuilding even the shakiest of bridges with Ron without the rocks and ice they've been scrambling up for two days. And Hermione's increased barrage of questions over the course of the climb, combined with her conversation with Draco earlier that afternoon make it quite clear that this new Harry is not without merit in her eyes either.

They lapse into silence again, hands still touching carefully. Eventually they start to talk about things that are less important in the grand scheme of things, but seem somehow all the more relevant because they're finally bridging the gap between the end of the war and this surreal, isolated balance they've struck on a mountainside in Africa. They talk about Quidditch and school (carefully avoiding the war and sticking to harmless tales of pranks and hijinx) and casual things they've done and seen in the years since.

Draco doesn't miss the momentary widening of Harry's eyes or the tiniest quirk of his mouth when Draco tells him about a particularly awkward date he had with Zacharias Smith several years ago, having been set up with him by mutual friends who didn't realize the two had known each other in school. Harry laughs heartily at Draco's description of the horror on both their faces when they realized what had happened, but Draco thinks his lingering smile might be more related to Draco's casual admission that he's gay than to the humor of his story.

Conversation is easy and pleasant and soothing to Draco's aching head, and part of him wishes it was always night on Harry's mountain and that time would stand still to allow for more moments like this one. But as usual, his body refuses to listen to what his mind wants, and he stifles a yawn and Harry breaks off from a laughing exchange about some of the flavours of Every-Flavour Beans that can be had in Africa to send him to bed.

"I know I've said this before, but tomorrow's going to be a rough day. You should try to sleep." The quiet authority in his tone sends a little thrill through Draco at the promise of concern from Harry.

Draco sighs. "How far up is it again?" He eyes the dark wall looming up in the moonlight.

"A bit more than a thousand metres straight up," Harry answers. "It'll take us the better part of the day to get over, and the terrain is fairly rough. You'll want to be rested if you can."

Draco is sorely tempted to ask Harry why he doesn't need to be rested, and even thinks, rather petulantly, that if the terrain is so rough, the guide should be rested and alert, shouldn't he? Still, his eyes are heavy and tired, and his mind is sluggish from the altitude and he thinks maybe from relief too, and he sighs again and reluctantly extracts his hand from beneath Harry's.

Harry doesn't get up with him this time, and at Draco's questioning gaze, Harry shrugs.

"I have a lot to think about, and we're leaving early. No sense in trying now."

Draco is torn between demanding that he have a guide who can at least put one foot in front of the other on the hardest day of their trip and sitting back down right next to Harry and talking or not talking until the deep, furrowed line in Harry's forehead smooths away. Harry's soft chuckle tells him he's wearing both thoughts on his face, and he smiles warily.

"Draco, I do this climb so often I can do it in my sleep. Or I could if I slept." He says a little sheepishly. "And you three are in far better condition than most of the people I bring up here. You'll be fine and so will I, but only if you get some sleep so I don't spend all day tomorrow watching to make sure you don't fall asleep mid-step. I have enough to worry about as it is."

Draco feels himself flush at the idea that Harry might worry about him, but he sees that this is one of those times where the vaunted Gryffindor stubbornness is more than he wants to take on. He bids Harry a quiet good night and heads to bed, looking back over his shoulder at the handsome man staring at the fire as he ducks into his tent and falls, still dressed, into his bed and a dreamless sleep.

The next morning dawns too soon, and Draco blinks at the dim, early morning sun shining outside the tent. Ron and Hermione are, predictably, already up and out, and Draco, realizing he's already dressed, stumbles to breakfast, curious to see how this morning might play out after his talk with Harry the night before.

He is relieved to find the three of them once again chatting easily when he enters the cook tent, although it seems this morning Ron is the one asking all the questions about their planned route for the day. Harry doesn't even look up at him as he talks, but he does pick up one of the two steaming cups sitting in front of him and hold his arm out in Draco's direction. Draco smiles before he can help himself and accepts the coffee gratefully, closing his eyes and inhaling the bittersweet steam before taking the first sip.

"Another one of those days where the first drink of coffee is the best part of your day then?" Harry asks playfully, and Draco opens his eyes to realize they're all watching him. He flushes.

"Oh shut up," he mumbles, yanking his chair out from under the table and flopping into it unceremoniously. Clearly they do not appreciate the finer points of a cup of good coffee, and Harry, much as it pains Draco to admit it, makes a very good cup of coffee. All three of them chuckle, and Draco slides down into his chair a little farther, even as he feels the corners of his mouth quirk up. There's something very right about the way this feels, all four of them together, and it surprises him.

He'd always suspected that if Harry ever did return, he would take his place back as Ron and Hermione's ever-present third, and Draco would be back on the outside looking in. But even though there is still a long way to go before Harry's relationship with his friends is repaired, Draco thinks perhaps he won't be shut out after all.

Ron and Hermione fall into conversation about how many pairs of socks to wear today (Hermione says two, because it will be colder still at the top, and Ron complains he won't be able to stuff his feet into his boots) and they go round and round as though socks are the most important thing in the world until Draco tunes them out and focuses on his coffee. He doesn't even notice Harry leaning towards him until he's so close that Draco can feel the other man's breath on his face as he whispers in Draco's ear.

"I know I make a decent cup of coffee, Draco, but I really hope that doesn't turn out to be the best part of your day." Draco can feel a flush crawling up the sides of his neck and he shivers at the hum he feels from Harry's words on his skin. "If it is, it means I'll be spending a very long night by my fire alone, and that would be another very great tragedy."

And as quickly as Harry is there, he's gone and on his way out the tent flap, leaving Draco gaping like a fish and trying to quell the rise of gooseflesh on his skin at Harry's words, and once again Draco rather happily figures out he's in for yet another mostly sleepless night.

To his consternation, his friends notice the idiotic grin he realizes is splitting his face, and he stomps out of the tent before they can ask, being sure to take the rest of Harry's very good coffee with him when he goes.


	8. Chapter Seven

_As always, my thanks to all of you for reading and commenting, and to the usual suspects, who still know who they are. I hope you enjoy the two-for-one week. _

_Some of the anecdotal details contained herein are mine, though if you take the path to the top of Africa, your mileage may vary. All fictional elements referred to herein belong to their respective owners. Harry Potter is Rowling's. No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

_

When Harry said the route that day would be "rough," Draco thinks tiredly as he clings to yet another jagged rock and inches along a particularly steep bit of path, he might have been underestimating the abilities of his clients just a little. Granted Draco and Ron are still fairly adept on brooms, owing to their occasional participation in Quidditch games with some of Ron's fellow Aurors, and Hermione has a knack for holding her own at just about everything she tries, but in spite of all of it, all three of them are haggard and worn out long before they finally scramble over the lip of the Western Breach.

On more than one occasion, Draco is certain he's going to fall to his very long, very painful death, owing to a slip of the foot on loose gravel or a carelessly placed hand on a crumbling rock. More than once Harry has reached out and grabbed him by the arm or steadied him at the waist, and Draco curses the part of his brain that thrills at the touch, because this is _not_ the time.

Harry is so nimble and graceful and oh hell, fucking _beautiful_ as he dances his way through the rocks, that Draco isn't sure if he wants to grab him and throw him in the dirt and snog him senseless or push him off the edge for being a showoff. He decides against the former because he's afraid he'll get distracted and fall, and against the latter because frankly, without someone to lead them, he's certain all three of them would flop down on the rocks and take their chances against the cold instead of carrying on. They trudge upward at such a slow pace that Draco wonders if they'll ever reach the top, stopping at intervals to drink water at Harry's insistence and to try to choke down food, which tastes to Draco like ash in his mouth. Every step is agony, and every breath is beginning to feel irritatingly like Harry's _sectumsempra_ so many years ago. Draco's lungs burn and his ribs ache from coughing, and Merlin but he's _tired_.

He's just about to summon enough air to loose a tirade on Ron the likes of which the git has never seen when he realises he's just pulled himself over a ledge and is standing on the first flat ground he's seen all day. He nearly falls to his knees in gratitude, and he doesn't even try to pretend his eyes don't fill when he sees their camp in the very near distance.

To his left there is a wall of ice so tall and so vast that it makes the glacier down at Arrow camp look like something Muggles would use to chill their drinks, and he gapes a little in spite of his exhaustion.

"Take a rest for a minute before we go to camp," Harry says, _still_ not sounding winded. "You don't want to miss this view after all that work."

Draco, Ron, and Hermione follow the direction Harry is pointing with tired eyes, and as usual, Harry is right. The view is not to be missed, and they all stand there silent as they stare out over the plains. The lower parts of the mountain are blanketed in thick fog, and they can see its wisps reaching out over the forest at the base before it dissolves over open grasslands. The sun beats warm and bright from above, and Draco knows that despite the Muggle lotion he's been smearing dutifully all over his skin, his face is pink with sunburn, at least if Ron and Hermione's red-tinged faces are any indication.

Finally Draco can no longer ignore his body's screaming protests at still being on his feet, and he looks imploringly at Harry, who seems to understand without a word.

"If you three collapse here, it'll take me all night to drag you to your tents," he quips, and draws three tired smiles. "As it is you need to eat something before you sleep, so let's go. Charles will have supper ready by now."

They move as though walking through mud, and Draco thinks it must take nearly a half-hour to walk the remaining few hundred steps to camp. They collapse into their chairs in the cook tent without bothering to remove coats or boots and sit silently as they push food around on their plates.

Draco can muster almost no enthusiasm for the meal, but he manages a few bites under Harry's watchful gaze, although he drinks what he thinks is enough tea to set a ship afloat on, which seems to make Harry back down a bit.

The sluggish discussion about morning and summits and descents is a fog in Draco's brain, and he finally looks helplessly at his companions before excusing himself to stumble to bed in the hopes that he might finally get some rest. The last thing that registers in his brain as he throws himself into his bed is the delayed realisation that he won't get to spend the evening with Harry by the fire, and he's sorely tempted to try to drag himself back up, but as sleep slides over him, he thinks maybe, just this once, Harry will understand.

* * *

Several hours later, Draco lies awake _again_. His head is pounding dully in his skull, and he curses Weasley for what must be the thousandth time since they left Moshi.

Fucking altitude sickness.

He takes stock of himself as he lies there, irritated and miserable. He's apparently at about 5,800 metres in elevation, which means very little to him, but Harry has explained over and over that even with their slowish (_pole pole_, and if Draco hears that phrase one more time he may scream) pace, sometimes the lack of water combined with exertion and the thinness of the air can lead to a touch of altitude sickness. Which, evidently in Draco's case, manifests itself with a complete lack of interest in food and the sense that an entire brigade of house elves are doing home repairs in his skull. And it keeps getting worse.

Not to mention the rather irritating need to find a rock to serve as a loo every twelve seconds, since Harry has given him some Muggle pill that's meant to alleviate the symptoms enough to get him to the top of this ridiculous mountain that Harry loves so much, but that makes him feel as though he's drunk an entire lake.

But when he staggered off to bed after the sun had barely even set, exhaustion so deeply rooted in every single nerve he could barely rise from the table at supper, he thought for sure he might sleep just this one night.

Draco huffs and rolls around one more time in his bunk, chuckling a little in the midst of his musings at the allowance of a wizard's tent and how much worse this would be if he didn't have one. He knows Harry doesn't sleep in one and wonders if his other clients really do, or if Harry's speech on the first day was a bit exaggerated. Draco hasn't dismissed the possibility that even though there are rules, perhaps one or two are being broken to appease Hermione and Weasley (he will not even _think_ of the man as Ron until this bloody headache subsides), and Draco is impressed with Harry's slyness. And more than a little appreciative, because it's _cold_ outside and a spelled tent might be the only reason he hasn't run back down the hills to the warmth of town.

His chuckle rattles his brain though, and he groans, knowing sleep is finished for him. Might as well get up and manage nature's call, if nothing else. Surely even Harry has to sleep sometimes, after the day they had on the mountain, and he tries very hard to quell the hope in his chest that there will be another fire when he steps outside, in spite of, or perhaps _because_ of Harry's whispered words that morning.

_"If it is, it means I'll be spending a very long night by my fire alone, and that would be another very great tragedy." _

He shivers, partly with the pleasure the memory of those words conjures, and partly against the chill in the air as he gets up and goes through the laborious process of dressing in four layers of this ridiculous Muggle clothing that, although warm, does not substitute for a nice warming charm. He considers casting one, but something about the last few days and nights on the trail and by the fire with Harry have made Draco think perhaps he should do this the way he signed up for.

When he ducks out of the tent, he takes a moment to let his eyes adjust to the darkness and looks up at the stars, so very close and bright and dense that he almost can't pick out the familiar constellations. He stands in the middle of the barren ash pit, distracted and a little dizzy, eyes toward the sky until a soft voice draws him from his reverie.

"Can't sleep after all?"

Draco jumps, even though he should be expecting the voice by now, and even though he would have been more than a little disappointed not to hear it. He turns, smiling but a little nervous, because all the questions have been asked and answered, and now it's just Draco and Harry and this very big mountain in the darkness. Harry sits, as he has for the past three nights, next to his small, magically-made open flame, looking up at Draco with an unreadable expression on his handsome face.

Even from his place outside the tents some distance away, Draco can see the tired circles under Potter's eyes, and his heart melts a little. He knows by now the man doesn't really sleep and he knows why, but seeing the evidence of it now, so late at night when it's just the two of them and everyone else is sound asleep, tugs at Draco's chest in the place where the _curlsmolder_ has lived for so long. He wishes so badly he could wipe that darkness away with a brush of his thumbs, and it takes everything he has in him not to put out a hand to try as he draws near.

He takes a seat in the dirt next to Harry in front of the fire, legs crossed and elbows resting on knees in such an un-Draco fashion he wonders if even his friends would recognize him.

"No," he belatedly answers softly, looking into concerned green eyes lit by fire. "Can't sleep up here. Too bloody quiet."

This is a lie, and he and Harry both know it, but Harry does him the favor of laughing quietly. Draco doesn't want to admit that he's awake partially because he's unwell, but mostly because at night, he is just Draco and Harry is just Harry and the last five years and the seven before that fall away.

"I'll try and remember to add the option of magically-included city sounds in my brochures in the future," Harry laughs, and Draco can't help but laugh with him, even if the voice in his head that says "_no more, come home_" is so loud he swears Harry should be able to hear it too.

They sit comfortably in silence for a few moments, looking between the fire and each other with no small amount of sheepishness when one catches the other looking at anything other than the flames or the stars. The dance they've been at for the past few nights is reaching what Draco thinks is a frenzied pace, and he thinks sooner than later one of them will crack under the tension and admit to feelings that so far have stayed hidden under the surface, or stumble and end it. He only hopes for the former.

Suddenly he's surprised when he hears Potter mutter a Tempus charm under his breath, and the time materializes before him in a wavy haze.

"Thought unnecessary magic was against the rules, oh Master of Guiding," Draco jokes, eyeing Harry, who smiles.

"I've broken nearly every one of my own rules since we started out, Malfoy," he says just cryptically enough to pique Draco's attention, and his laughing tone in his voice quells the brief lurch in Draco's chest at Harry's use of his surname. He didn't realise how much he'd grown used to being called _Draco_ in such a short time until just that moment, even in the wake of their argument the night before. "Why stop now?" Harry rises and smirks in such a way that Draco thinks he just might go weak in the knees if he tries to stand.

Why on earth does Harry sodding Potter have to have _such _an effect on him?

Harry puts out the now-completely familiar hand to pull Draco up from his seat.

"C'mon, I want to show you something. Go get your boots."

Draco rises with Harry's help and, much to his own surprise, obediently goes to fetch his boots from behind the tent wall without a retort, even though he thinks Harry may have finally lost the plot after all. He ties them and returns to the fire where Harry stands waiting, feeling a bit mad with curiosity. It's the middle of the night and dark as pitch, so where does he possibly want to go?

They set off, Draco following Harry through such darkness that he's sure he'll fall and break something at any moment. Draco has one of the ridiculous Muggle head lamps on (something else the woman at the store said they couldn't live without), and it casts weak light at his feet from its pathetic excuse for a bulb. He's surprised to see a blue sphere of light floating in front of Harry, and is about to make another remark when the other man turns around.

"Like I said, I'm breaking all my other rules." Potter's face is smooth and glowing in the light of his sphere. "Might as well break this one, since what we're doing isn't exactly part of the paid tour anyway."

This catches Draco's ear and his curiosity soars to new levels, but he wisely keeps his mouth shut and extinguishes the stupid Muggle invention he's wearing on his head in favor of a nice, neat Lumos charm. The bloody thing is too tight anyway, and his head hurts badly enough as it is.

He silently follows Harry up a winding path, not paying any special attention to where they're headed other than to realise it's _up_, and he wonders just how much more _up_ he'll have to endure before this is all over. He's freezing, and the longer they walk, the less this particular adventure seems a good idea. And the more irritated he gets, which renders his view of the extremely attractive back side of one Harry Potter that stalks upward ahead of him more or less moot.

No, strike that. He's so far past freezing that he's considering throwing the Saviour of the Wizarding World off the next boulder they come to so he can cast a warming charm and go back to his nice, warm, spelled tent as soon as he's rid of the great idiot. _Just Harry_ be damned.

"No using magic, Draco," he mutters under his breath, imitating Harry on their first few days. "Do it all the way or not at all, Draco. Muggles do this all the time with no magic, Draco."

"You know, you wouldn't be so short of breath or so cold if you cut that out." Harry's voice is so bloody even and free of both exertion and chill that Draco is certain he'd scream were it not for the amount of effort that would entail. And he likes listening to it, even if it does remind him how easy this is for Harry. "Besides, we're nearly there."

Nearly there. Ha. Draco is about to irritably tell Harry that unless "there" involves an Apparition point to the nearest tropical beach, he's not interested, when he runs right into the back of the man with a loud "MMPH."

"Bloody hell, Potter," he begins, "what the..."

"Welcome to the roof of Africa, Draco," Harry says dryly and yet with such feeling that Draco cuts off mid-syllable and _looks_.

The sudden realisation of where he stands hits Draco like a Petrificus curse, and he stares, eyes straining against the darkness to see where he is, to see _anything._

Dimly he can make out the sign overhead that reads _Uhuru Peak, Tanzania 5,895M AMSL. _Something about seeing that sign, knowing he's managed to actually _get here_, and that he really did do so under his own power overwhelms him and he sits down hard on the cold, ashy ground.

He looks up at Harry, who is still standing, his lighted sphere glowing and dancing in the darkness and illuminating what Draco can now see is a smile that threatens to break free into a grin on Harry's face.

"I don't understand," Draco says, marvelling but still trying to piece together what he's seeing. "Why did you bring me up here now? We're coming up in the morning, aren't we?"

Harry smiles and nods, but then sets his face to a seriousness that makes Draco want to squirm. His gaze is sharp and piercing in the glow of his charm. He slowly walks to Draco's side and slides to the ground next to him, extinguishing the light. They sit so close that Draco can feel Harry's body heat next to him, and he so badly wants to close the distance between their knees or shoulders or _anything_, just to feel the contact.

"Wait for it," Harry says quietly, his voice full of reverence and something else Draco can't quite place but knows he wants to hear over and over for the rest of his life. They sit silently, Draco looking expectantly into the distance for Merlin knows what. Harry looks out with what Draco assumes is more certainty, but also breaks his gaze at the distance to peer at Draco every now and again.

Finally, just about the time Draco considers complaining about the cold, Harry whispers "now" under his breath, and Draco stares out over the plains, realisation dawning almost instantaneously and then completely swept away by awe.

The moon is rising over what Draco knows is the Tanzanian savannah, but the point is that he's sitting on the highest point on a continent watching a full moon rise up over the plains, lighting up everything in sight nearly as brightly as day. It casts a brilliant blueish-white glow that seems to emphasize the vast openness he's looking at, making it all look so much bigger and him feel so much smaller than he ever has before. He gasps involuntarily, and he sees Harry's small smile from the corner of his eyes, which are _not_ threatening to fill with tears, because Malfoys are not sentimental saps, no matter what the tug in his chest is telling him right now.

He can see for miles, leagues even, as though eternity is bathed in soft moonlight before him, and no one in the whole world can see _this _except for him and Harry, and his heart clenches so dangerously beneath the _curlsmolder_ that he lets out a soft whimper.

Harry turns his head, regarding Draco carefully.

"Why did you bring me here?" Draco asks again in a whisper, his voice full of awe and appreciation at what Harry is giving him, but wanting to understand _why_.

"This is why I do this," Harry says softly after a moment, and Draco feels the cold air between Harry's thigh and his disappear, its place taken by Harry's warm leg pressed full-length against Draco's as Harry scoots nearer. Their shoulders are pressed together too, and Draco is momentarily dizzied by the warmth and comfort he feels with the press of Harry's body.

"This is why I'm here," Harry goes on, his voice gathering passion. "Where in London can I find magic this pure? Where in_ that world_ can I feel so small and unimportant? Nothing out there," he gestures vaguely at the plains, "or up here cares that I'm Harry Potter or that I fought Voldemort. Where else does that exist for me?"

The moon is so large on the horizon that Draco is sure he could reach out and touch it, and he gives in to Harry's question, to his body pressed against Draco's, to the lilt in his voice, and accepts that this is the purest magic he's ever felt too, and there's no magic at all.

He opens his mouth to speak but can't find any words, and for the longest time he sits there, side pushed up against Harry's, reveling in the warmth and comfort of this enigmatic man who surprises him at every turn, looking out over what Draco is sure is the whole of the African continent. After a few moments, Draco is surprised to feel a hand come up to cover his where it sits on his knee, and he wishes beyond any desire he's ever had in his whole, decadent, wasteful life that it was warm enough _not_ to have both of those hands covered by gloves.

And yet, as he smiles softly and ducks his head clearly enough for Harry to see his pleased surprise at the gesture, he wouldn't change a single thing about this moment. He wishes he could freeze its perfection, its solitude, its every breath and whisper, and put it in a pensieve or a box or a jar, something that will trap it and never let it go. Five years of wishing and wanting and searching and what ifs, and they all come down to this moment on an impossibly high mountain a continent away from home, with a moon so huge and so bright that Draco might have thought it charmed for the occasion if the penetrating cold and the harshness of the thin air weren't painfully reminding him of just where he was.

An involuntary shudder runs through him, though he tries hard to suppress it. He doesn't want to break the spell of the moment in spite of the cold. Still he's not entirely disappointed when he feels Harry tense against him at his shiver.

"You're cold," Harry's voice is still soft, but carries some of the authority that Draco has come to associate with_ Guide Harry. _Draco knows this means his moment on the roof of Africa with just Harry is coming to an end, and he can't decide how to feel about that, mostly because he doesn't know what will happen next, when they leave this spot and the magic-that-isn't-magic fades away.

"A little, but can we stay for just a minute more?" He gulps before adding, "Please, Harry?" Draco's voice is so earnest he surprises himself. Harry's face softens at the pleading note in Draco's tone.

He silently nods and Draco tries, with limited success, to scoot closer to Harry in a manner not entirely without dignity. Apparently one does not scoot with dignity, but Draco really couldn't give a Kneazle's arse at that very moment, and he feels Harry's chuckle vibrate against his side, causing him to smile in spite of himself.

In one more breath, the levity of the moment is gone again, and Draco knows that Harry is as affected by their proximity as he is by the change in the other man's breathing. Altitude and exertion seem not to faze Harry, but this nearness brings on an almost-imperceptible increase in the rise and fall of his shoulders, and Draco is secretly pleased he's not the only one. In an instant, the moon breaks free of the horizon and becomes a floating white ball so bright above the plains that Draco thinks if he tries hard enough he can make out herds of animals a nation away. Their breaths turn ragged and loud against the silent solitude of the mountain's summit, and the hand resting on top of Draco's turns into a tight grip of entangled fingers, making Draco's mouth goes suddenly dry.

Is he really sitting on top of a mountain holding hands with Harry Potter? This is, without question, the most surreal experience of Draco's life, and yet he feels so comfortable and safe and isolated that he can't bring himself to break the spell to question it.

Harry, it seems, has other ideas. He shifts away slightly from Draco and releases his hand, and the sudden rush of frigid summit air against his side combined with Draco's momentary sense of devastation at what he's sure is about to be a stumbling rejection fraught with "it's not you, it's me," and "I was caught up in the moment and I didn't mean to," makes him shiver so violently it feels like a sob.

Harry looks at him sharply, and Draco is unable to look away from those eyes glittering in the moonlight.

"Draco," he whispers, and Draco thinks perhaps his own name has never sounded so wonderful before, as Harry lifts his hand to slide Draco's ridiculous Muggle stocking cap from his head and wind gloved fingers into Draco's hair. They stare at each other for what feels like an eternity, Harry's clumsy, wool-covered fingers tugging and stroking Draco's hair out of his face, hot breaths mingled in clouds of white steam on the freezing air.

When Harry moves his head just the smallest distance, Draco feels his whole body breathe a sigh of desire-laced relief, and he's sure it's his own grateful sag into Harry that seals their lips together, but he doesn't care. The moment his own chapped, cold lips touch Harry's, he feels as though even the luminescent moon dulls by comparison to the flame that leaps in his chest.

Chaste lips brush together, asking tentatively for permission and acceptance and trust and at the same time offering possibility and gratitude, if only both parties want it. And it seems they do, as Draco feels Harry's lips part against his and tongues seek each other out as though it was the most natural and expected thing in the world, and Draco is sure he's been kissing Harry Potter on a mountaintop his whole life in some parallel universe, but this is just the first time he's figured it out in this one.

Draco has no idea how long the kiss lasts or who finally breaks it, only that suddenly he's no longer kissing Harry and instead is staring into moonlit eyes and listening to two sets of ragged breaths in the otherwise eerie silence, until his treacherous body betrays the cold and shudders again. Harry laughs, touching his forehead against Draco's own in a gesture so intimate that Draco fears he might feel tears pricking in his eyes for the second time since he followed Harry up here. Just maybe Malfoys are sentimental saps after all.

"You're cold, and it's late, and we're breaking all the rules," Harry says, and Draco doesn't know if Harry means rules of the climb or something bigger, and frankly he doesn't care as long as they keep breaking them together. "C'mon, it'll only take a few minutes to get down."

Harry stands effortlessly, and even through his kiss-induced haze Draco can find it in himself to marvel with a tiny bit of irritation at how easy this is for him for the thousandth time today. They are so far above what Draco and the rest of the wizarding world consider a reasonable altitude that it's almost insane, and Harry is no more winded by his surroundings than he would be in Hogsmeade. Although, Draco notes with some satisfaction, when Harry looks too closely at Draco's mouth, his breath does hitch just the tiniest bit as he pulls him from the ground and begins to guide them both back to camp.

Harry is right, and the walk down takes no more than 15 minutes, which pass even faster for Draco, who is reliving the kiss over and over in his head until he suddenly finds his feet on even ground and looks up to see a suddenly very shy and very kissable-looking Harry Potter eyeing him apprehensively, and his heart flips over in his chest.

Harry stands there, searching Draco's eyes for _something_ that Draco can't name, so he does his best to look back in a way that says all the things he's thinking right that second but refuses to say, because he'll sound like he's begging, and Draco Malfoy does not beg. Although he's considering breaking that rule himself just now.

_Please, do something, wanted you for so long, don't want to wait anymore, didn't think we'd ever see you again, finally found you, please..._

Finally Harry must find what he's looking for, because the shyness melts away from his face and he takes Draco's hand and all but drags him back away from the big cooking tent and the one next to it where Ron and Hermione are sleeping, completely unaware of what's gone on outside. Tucked away in a shadow between two great boulders is a small, unremarkable, and as far as Draco can see, completely Muggle tent. The sight of it makes Draco's stomach clench and swirl with desire and anticipation and nerves the way being taken to someone's flat or house or manor never has.

There is something about the knowledge that Harry prefers the simplicity of the cloth structure in front of them to the elaborate possibilities of a spelled tent that excites Draco, but that also tugs on his well-hidden sappy heart strings a little. As Harry pulls him by the hand towards the zippered tent flap, Draco feels a little as though he's entering a sacred place, though he can't explain why.

Harry has never said they had to stay away from his tent, but they've never seen it either, apart from the outside from a distance. Draco suspects this is at least somewhat to do with the lack of magical enhancement. Harry really does prefer the simple, unheated, cramped dome of Muggle-made fabric to the spelled tents he uses for his clients. Draco suspects this has something to do with what he's just seen as the moon rose over the savannah and he listened to Harry say, "Where in London can I find magic this pure?"

He is beginning to understand that it isn't just the mountain, but the experience that Harry holds sacred, and this tent must be a part of that. And he, Draco Malfoy, is being pushed inside that tent with the urgency of a snatcher with a purse to sell, and it makes him smile through his nerves.

He wants Harry, that much is both true and obvious, but he takes more than a little joy in the realisation that after so many hours of talking and fighting and yelling and brooding at fires and at school, that Harry Potter wants him too.

Just as Draco suspected, Harry's tent is as devoid of magical enhancement on the inside as it is from the outside. It's small and cramped and cold, and right now it might be the best place Draco has ever been in his life, magic or no. Although, he thinks a little absently as Harry crawls through the tent flap behind him, no one close enough to feel the anticipation flowing between the two of them would say this tent was without magic entirely.

The inside of the cloth dome is cozy and dim even in the light of Harry's lantern, and Draco marvels a little at the spartan simplicity of the space Harry calls his own on the mountain he loves so much. He sleeps on the ground instead of the cot-like beds he provides his clients, and his belongings are stacked meticulously at the foot of his bedding. Draco finds himself sitting on top of a very thick, very soft sleeping bag and snorts inwardly at the notion that he quite literally is in Harry's bed without even trying, not that there's anywhere else to sit, and he's made even more keenly aware of the forced intimacy of the tiny tent.

Maybe Muggles are onto something with their cramped sleeping accommodations after all.

When Draco brings his eyes back to Harry, his breath catches in his throat at the blazing intensity in the green eyes that look back at him. They sit cross-legged, knees touching and breathing ragged and amplified and visible in the cold silence of the tent, and Draco thinks Harry is looking straight through his eyes and into his soul. And for the first time in his life, he just stares back and allows it.

After what feels like the most wonderful eternity Draco has ever imagined, Harry finally blinks and furrows his brow for a moment as he looks around himself. He huffs and looks back at Draco with a smile that makes his spine turn to mush, and it's all he can do to stay upright.

"Don't. Move." Harry's voice is rough and the words are pointed and full of _Guide Harry_ authority, but his tone is soft and he reaches out to run a still-gloved hand across the growth of stubble on Draco's jaw before he scrambles back out of the tent flap.

Draco watches in confusion, hearing quick steps move away from the tent in the dirt outside, but thinks that the admonishment to stay put is probably a good sign. He's rewarded for his lack of panic when Harry crawls back in just as quickly as he left, this time holding Draco's discarded sleeping sack from the fire in one hand.

If he thought he was confused before, Draco is completely perplexed now as he watches Harry sit back down on the ground, a small smile on his face.

"Harry," he says slowly, his voice raspy in his throat, "what are you...oh. Oh!" Draco can barely contain the smile of delight that crosses his face as realisation dawns. Harry has practically torn the zip down on both sleeping bags and is zipping them together awkwardly, his fingers bulky and uncoordinated in his gloves. He doesn't know why he's suddenly so giddy, he's already _in_ Harry's tent after all, but there's something intimate and promising about the sight of their bedding fitted together that he simultaneously feels his heart race and a delicious heat pool in his belly with the anticipation.

Harry finishes his task and fixes his gaze on Draco again and they both go still. He realises how few words have passed between them since their kiss and he wonders if perhaps Harry is searching his face so intently because Draco has barely said a word in more than half an hour.

"Harry."

He means to say more, to tell Harry about how long he's wished for this, about how grateful he is for every minute they've spent in each other's company, but it seems his name is all Harry needs to hear, and he leans in to press his lips to Draco's.

If their first kiss was the euphoria of the summit and the moon and the _moment_ for Draco, then their second is all the need and want and ache of the last five years, and he is lost in it. Harry's lips are chapped but his touch is soft, and he tastes like coffee and the mint from the balm on his lips and _cold_, and Draco shivers. Tongues tangle and teeth nip and soft hums of pleasure float away on steamy breaths.

It isn't until Draco reaches a hand up to brush Harry's cheek that he realises that something isn't quite perfect.

"Harry - mmph!" He's cut off by a particularly lovely line of kisses being trailed across his lips and up his jawline, and the feeling of lips and teeth and warm, wet breath on his skin makes him groan and tip his head back for a moment before he remembers why he stopped to begin with. "Harry, stop. Harry!"

Harry jerks back and Draco curses the desperate tone in his voice, knowing it came out all wrong in his desire-addled state. Before Harry can retreat into the wounded-Gryffindor sulk that's already beginning to creep across his face, Draco tears off his own gloves and reaches out more gently for Harry's hands, tugging the bulky cloth off one at a time. He doesn't break eye contact with Harry for even a second as he reaches down to press their palms together and then wind his fingers through Harry's.

"Skin," is all he says by way of explanation, hoping Harry will understand that after so many nights of gloves and coats as barriers, his craving for skin-to-skin contact is almost unbearable. And he does understand, it seems, mirroring Draco's movements with his own fingers and squeezing Draco's hands gently, and silences any lingering doubts with another kiss.

This one is long and slow and sweet, languid tongues exploring mouths and breaths coming raspy and unsteady. Draco slides one hand free from Harry's and skims it up over Harry's prickly jaw and into his hair and then back down to tug at zip on his coat. Layer upon layer of coats and jumpers are shed with fumbling fingers and muttered curses and soft laughs at the ridiculousness of how much clothing one person needs to keep warm until finally Harry is stripped to the waist and Draco is left with his last shirt and a sudden, overwhelming uncertainty.

Under that shirt are the two things he thinks might drive Harry away on the spot, and he's terrified even as those cursed fingers slide under the hem and graze the bare skin of his sides so softly he groans.

"Skin," Harry whispers, looking at him with eyes so soft that Draco knows he can't refuse and he lifts his arms for Harry to pull his shirt over his head and closes his eyes, waiting.

He hears a soft sigh and a curse from Harry, and the feeling of featherlight fingertips running over the criss-crossing scars on his chest make his eyes fly open again. So it's to be that one, then.

"Draco, gods," Harry says brokenly, flattening his palm against Draco's chest in the center of the lines of raised pale flesh, and something about the heat and comfort of the gesture emboldens Draco, makes him realise there's something Harry needs from this. He covers Harry's hand with his own, never looking away from the other man's face.

"Grateful, remember?" His voice is barely above a whisper, and he fixes a small smile on his lips. "Harry, if you hadn't done this," he squeezes Harry's hand, "we might not even be here. Everything might have been different, and we wouldn't have had any of this."

Harry looks at him with such hope, eyes shining with what Draco is sure are unshed tears, that he has to gulp down the rising lump in his own throat. Still, he smiles a little wider as he goes on.

"And that, I'm very certain at this moment, would have been perhaps the greatest tragedy of all."

Harry blinks and then smiles back, something akin to joy lighting his face for a moment before he leans down to press soft, hot, open-mouthed kisses along one of the silvery lines on Draco's chest and Draco's eyes threaten to roll back in his head at the sensation.

The kisses continue as he's pushed flat on his back, sprawled out across their sleeping bags with a half-naked Harry Potter licking and sucking and nipping at every inch of his bare torso and he begins to squirm against the tightness in his trousers and the need for _so much more right now please Harry_. He grips Harry's shoulders and wrenches him up to bring their lips together and Harry presses full length against him, skin feverishly hot against the chill of the tent and hands grasping firmly at shoulders and arms and twining into Draco's own fingers. He feels Harry's erection slide against his own and it takes every thread of self-control he possesses not to cry out or come right then and there.

"Merlin, _fuck_, Draco!" Harry hisses at the touch and pushes his cock down harder against Draco's and Draco wrenches his fingers free to fumble at belt and buttons and push Harry's trousers and pants away from his hips.

"Skin, gods, Harry more skin, please," he gasps again as Harry follows suit and soon they're both naked and panting and staring as hands roam and caress and explore hidden places. Harry's hands are rough and calloused and every touch leaves a burning trail in its wake.

"So fucking perfect," Harry is muttering as he watches his own hands trail over Draco's skin and it's suddenly all too much for Draco to stand. He grasps Harry's shoulders to pull him back down until they're flush together and writhing and pushing and sliding slick and sweaty against one another.

"Draco...please...please, I can't..."

Draco moans at the urgent shudder in Harry's voice and knows he's close too and when their lips meet _desperate needy please_ in a messy, hot, wet crash he feels his back arch and light dances under his eyelids and he digs clenched fingers into Harry's shoulders as the waves of pure pleasure wash over him, muscles spasming and shaking with the force of it. He feels Harry tense and shudder against him seconds later, spilling his own sticky wetness between them as he whispers Draco's name over and over before burying his head in Draco's neck and panting in hot, ragged breaths.

They lie there for a long time, fingers lazily tracing circles on hips and backs, and lips and tongues caressing salty, cooling skin. Finally Harry rolls to one side, smiling down at Draco softly as he murmurs under his breath and Draco feels the sharp, cooling sensation of a cleaning spell.

"Just another rule to break then, hm?" He chuckles as he says it and reaches up to run a hand across Harry's face.

"No, that one's just plain good sense. In case you hadn't noticed, we're a little short on showers up here, and I don't fancy sleeping in a sticky mess, do you?" Harry catches Draco's hand before he lowers it and presses a kiss into his palm.

Draco stretches, feeling the lingering effects of a spectacular orgasm in every muscle and luxuriating in them. He grins at Harry mischievously.

"I had noticed the lack of showers," he says playfully, "and if you washing my hair is the alternative, I might never take another one."

Harry snorts and runs a hand over Draco's exposed chest, watching gooseflesh rise behind his touch. The tent is still cold and they both shiver as the heat they built up together begins to leave their bodies. At Harry's prodding, Draco drags himself into their makeshift bedding, shivering openly against the cold night air until he feels Harry press full-length against his back and wrap warm, comfortable arms around him.

"Harry?" He asks quietly after a moment.

"Hm?"

"Is it...I mean...oh sod it all. I'm afraid if I go to sleep, I'll wake up and this all will have been a dream." Draco blurts this out before he can stop himself, and he feels a flush creep across his cheeks at his admission, but the whole night has felt like one very big, very wonderful dream, and he's afraid it will all be gone with the sun.

Harry chuckles softly and tightens his grip around Draco and presses soft lips to his shoulder.

"This isn't a dream, Draco. I've never had a dream like this." His tone is playful, but his words tug at Draco's heart and he's reminded of Harry's insistence the he doesn't sleep for the nightmares that plague him.

Draco instinctively reaches up and twines his fingers through the ones on the hand that's flung over his chest. The prolonged silence and the evening out of the breaths ghosting over Draco's neck make Draco smile, and he risks sliding his head over far enough to crane his neck around and see a peaceful, sleep-slackened expression on Harry's face. He tucks himself back under the crook of Harry's chin and draws Harry's arm more tightly around himself, reveling in the _rightness_ of it before he brushes Harry's knuckles with his lips.

"Sweet dreams, Harry," he whispers as he closes his eyes and drifts into sleep.


	9. Chapter Eight

_As always, my thanks to all of you for reading and commenting, and to the usual suspects, who still know who they are. _

_Some of the anecdotal details contained herein are mine, though if you take the path to the top of Africa, your mileage may vary. All fictional elements referred to herein belong to their respective owners. Harry Potter is Rowling's. No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

_

Consciousness washes over Draco the next morning like a ripple on a pond, slow and quiet, and he realises without opening his eyes that he can't remember when he last felt so rested and so wonderfully _warm_. An experimental opening of one eye against the morning light brings the night before rushing back into his head all at once, and as he glances down at the tanned arm draped over his chest, he can't suppress a grin.

Not a dream, then. Although if he couldn't feel Harry's warm, soft skin pressed flush against his back, he still might wonder if even his eyes are deceiving him.

"G'morning," Harry's voice is soft and, Draco notices, still hazy with sleep, which means he _slept_, a fact that makes Draco inexplicably pleased with himself. "I told you it wasn't a dream, didn't I?"

Draco chuckles at Harry's uncanny timing and reaches up to slide the fingers of his left hand through Harry's and rest them against his chest. "You did. I'm still not entirely sure I believe you though."

His words aren't meant to be a challenge, but it seems Harry takes them that way. He snorts and Draco shudders as he feels soft kisses trailing along the top of his shoulder.

"No?" Harry asks between grazes of his lips. "How about now?" He nips at a line of exposed flesh covering the tendons between Draco's shoulder and his neck, teasing and pinching it between his teeth before soothing the sting with a gentle swipe of his tongue.

"Mmmm," Draco hums, "I'm starting to see thing your w- _oh fuck_!" He breaks off as Harry's teeth find a particularly sensitive bit of skin below his ear and he arches back against Harry's very warm, very naked very - _interesting_ - aroused body.

"Now?" Harry whispers as he untangles his fingers from Draco's and reaches down to take hold of Draco's own very interested cock, and Draco feels his teeth begin to cut through his bottom lip as he tries to keep from crying out at Harry's touch, and all he can do is nod his head helplessly at Harry's question.

Harry's hand is sure and firm and unrelenting and Draco flexes his hips with every stroke, noting with as much satisfaction as he can muster through his pleasure that Harry is pushing and rolling his own hips in rhythm with Draco's, pressing hardened flesh against Draco's arse and the small of his back, and that his is not the only breathing in the tent that is quickly becoming ragged and erratic.

The combination of their activities the night before and the morning hour bring him close to the edge of his release so quickly he feels like a teenager, and as Harry grips and strokes and twists he feels the light in the tent tunnel away and all he hears as he comes over Harry's still-moving hand with a moan is the raspy whisper in his ear.

"Fuck yes, Draco..._fuck_!" And with one final hiss and a push of his cock against Draco's back, Harry falls over the edge with him, all damp and sticky and panting into his neck.

After a few trembling, gasping breaths, Draco finds his voice first.

"If I'm perfectly honest, Harry," he says, still a little breathless, "while I appreciate your, er, _methods_, you're doing nothing to convince me this isn't just the best wet dream I've ever had."

Draco is rewarded for his gently mocking words with another of Harry's cold cleaning spells and a not-unpleasant, playful bite to the fleshy part of his shoulder.

"I suppose throwing you out on your naked arse in the cold might have been another way to do it," he says, laughing as Draco squirms to turn in his arms and glare at him. "But don't you think this was more _fun_?"

The effect of Draco's glare, which otherwise, he's sure, would have stopped Harry's laughter on his lips, is somewhat dampened when Draco catches sight of Harry's face for the first time that morning. The dark smudges under his eyes, though still visible, have lightened considerably, and his eyes sparkle and dance as he smiles unreservedly, flashing perfect white teeth, and Draco knows the indignant look he was going for has slid right off his face.

"Hi." He whispers, smiling back at Harry and feeling absurdly _shy_ all of a sudden. He reaches up to brush tentative fingers across Harry's cheek and over the prickly hair on his jaw almost as though to assure himself the handsome man looking back at him is really there, because if this really isn't a dream, then Draco doesn't know what he's done to deserve the reality before him.

Harry's smile softens and his eyelashes flutter at Draco's touch. "Hi yourself," he breathes, and catches Draco's hand to kiss his palm in the same gesture he'd used the night before. "I suppose, as much as I'd like nothing more than to stay here all day, we should get up. I can think of two people who _didn't_ make it to the summit last night who probably would like to do so this morning, hm?"

Draco blushes at the thought of his friends, because it's morning and they'll have noticed that neither he nor his sleeping bag are in their shared tent. And it won't take Ron's Auror training to notice that both of them are also missing from the breakfast table.

He knows they shouldn't dally, and it isn't as though he's _leaving_ Harry when they step out of the little domed tent. They'll continue their journey back to the top of Harry's mountain and down to its base and then...

Well, he'll worry about _and then_ when it comes. But still, he can't help but squeeze his eyes shut and almost burrow into Harry's shoulder, wriggling down further into the warm comfort of their makeshift double sleeping bag. He feels, as he suspects Harry might as well judging by the soft sigh and the gentleness of the hand that slides around the back of Draco's neck to brush at his hair, that as long as they stay here, snugged into their silk and down cocoon, the magic-that-isn't-magic will stay whole and unbroken. It's a little silly, but he can't fight down the fear that the morning sun will break the spell the moonlight cast over them both the night before, and he thinks that might even be worse than his earlier supposition that this was all just a wonderful dream.

He sighs and allows himself a few more seconds to revel in the feeling of his skin against Harry's, of their soft, slow breathing and idly roaming fingers. At last he shifts and Harry loosens his arms, and just like that the world and the people outside Harry's tent crash back into Draco's head in an unwelcome wave.

"They'll know, Harry, you know that, right?" He says as they sit up, untangling hands and legs and shivering as the cold air hits their skin while they sort out the haphazard piles of clothes that seem to have been discarded everywhere the night before.

Harry sighs and nods as he pulls a shirt over his head. "I know. You can't put anything past Hermione, past either of them really, where you're concerned. You alright about it?"

The question is casual, but the meaning behind it runs deeper, and Draco considers it for a moment as he watches Harry pulling on socks over still-bare legs. Ron and Hermione still don't know all that he does, although he's sure Hermione will have filled Ron in on what Draco told her at the glacier, and he knows they still have plenty of cause to be angry with Harry. But, he reasons, they're his friends, and despite the thousands of things he's done in his life that make it so shocking, they trust him. He thinks they will have reservations, and he would be lying if he didn't have some himself. Hell, Harry probably has a list of his own a mile long, but there's something about the magic of this bloody mountain that makes all that seem insignificant.

He smiles at Harry and nods, and he sees Harry relax a little as he finishes dressing. They crawl out of the tent, one after the other and Harry smiles, squinting against the bright summit sun.

"Might as well go face them then," he says and bumps Draco with his shoulder. "Besides, if there's one thing I know, it's that you've already been awake too long without a cup of that syrup you call coffee."

Something about Harry's tone and the playful but still gentle smile on his face makes Draco's chest tighten with happiness and a little bit of relief. The magic-that-isn't-magic is still there, not spoiled in the harsh light of morning, and he's grateful.

He grins and nudges Harry back, his mind already drifting to his first sip of coffee with longing.

"True," he says, "but the coffee might be a bit of a letdown this morning."

At Harry's confused look, he laughs, amazed at how light his steps feel even at this altitude, and how the headache, though still there, has retreated behind a giddiness he barely knows how to control, because he's sure he's never felt giddy in his whole life until he came up this ridiculous mountain.

"Your coffee's good, Harry, but you'll have to conjure magic that I think is even outside the reach of the Boy Who Lived to make it better than the first part of this day has already been."

He winks at Harry, who has stopped dead in his tracks and is smiling and blushing so furiously at Draco's open words of affection that Draco almost giggles (except of course Malfoys do not giggle) as he slides open the flap of the cook tent and strides inside.

Just as he expected, Ron and Hermione are sitting in their customary places at the table. When they look up at him he can see concern and uncertainty on both their faces, and he wants to laugh but doesn't, because he knows it wouldn't come out right and they deserve better than to think he isn't grateful.

Instead, he claps Ron (he's so damned pleased this morning he can't even muster the normal _Weasley_) on the shoulder and plants an uncharacteristic kiss on the top of Hermione's head before sliding into his own usual spot. As Harry walks into the tent a few steps behind him, no longer grinning but still a little bit flushed, much to Draco's pleasure, he watches his friends' faces shift from worried to confused, and then at almost the exact same time, disbelief.

Although, to their credit, they hide it all well enough, offering pleasantries in response to Harry's muttered, "Good morning." He isn't sure if Harry notices the slight squeak in Ron's voice, or if he sees Hermione's eyebrow arch so perfectly he thinks even his own mother might be impressed, but he knows all three of them see the pleased flush that still crosses his cheeks when Harry hands him another perfectly-made cup of coffee, his fingers brushing Draco's deliberately in the process.

When Harry ducks back out of the tent after breakfast, mumbling something about finding Charles, Draco braces himself for the questions he's seen swirling behind Hermione's steady gaze. She barely waits for the tent flap to stop its waving behind Harry before she rounds on Draco.

"Draco Malfoy, you had better explain yourself right this second!" She hisses, and Draco thinks it is a testament to just exactly how happy he is this morning that he doesn't shrink under her gaze. "Need I remind you this is _Harry_ we are talking about here, the same Harry who walked out on us five years ago? And you _slept_ with him, just like that? After all this time? Are you on _his_ side now?"

She is shrieking now, and Draco feels his headache beginning to creep back behind his eyes. He hopes Harry won't hold the silencing charm he casts over the tent against him, his first open defiance of the no-magic rule. Hermione's eyes widen and Draco cuts her off before she can screech anymore. Harry may no longer be able to hear her, but that doesn't mean the rest of them can't preserve what remains of their hearing.

"First of all," he starts quietly, knowing he does, in fact, have some explaining to do and not wanting to sound defensive. "Whether or not I _slept_ with Harry isn't the issue here, although you know perfectly well that I slept in his tent instead of ours, and I'm not ashamed to admit it."

Draco looks at them both defiantly. He's irritated suddenly, feeling like the most unlikely middleman ever to exist, and Slytherins are not meant to be middlemen. He's _happy_, not just content or pleased or any of the other perfectly acceptable things he's felt in the last five years that have kept him going but haven't quite ever added up to equal real happiness, and he resents the circumstances that are causing an unwelcome cloud to descend over the sensation.

"I'm not on _his _side, Hermione. I'm not on anyone's side. Isn't this what we've wanted all along? To find Harry and see that he's alright? That he hasn't completely lost the plot or been kidnapped by rogue Death Eaters or fallen through some other version of the Veil? Well, he's here, and he's well enough, and I can't help it if he talked to me first. Has it occurred to either of you that he's so fucking _sorry_ that he doesn't even know how to talk to you?"

Draco stops his barrage of questions to take a sharp breath, and as he does so he realises his own voice has started to escalate. He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose for a moment before looking back up at his friends, who are staring at him, faces unreadable. Finally Ron breaks the silence first, startling Draco and Hermione equally when he speaks.

"Look mate," he says, not unkindly, "'Mione filled me in on what you told her the other day. And if we're being honest, yeah, mostly all I've wanted for five years was to see that Harry is alive and well with my own eyes. But, and don't pretend to be offended when I say this, because you've no right and you know it," Ron's eyes are filled with challenge now too, and Draco has to fight the urge to snap at him like a child, "you weren't _there_ all those years in school, Draco. Not with him. Not with _us_. It wasn't that he just walked away. Hell, _I_ walked away once, if anyone understands that, it's me."

Draco instinctively shifts his gaze to Hermione, as he always does on the rare occasions that Ron talks about the days he spent away from her and Harry in the middle of their frantic search for the remaining Horcruxes. They were dark days for both of his friends, but he still thinks it really might have been that time apart that made them both realise just how much they meant to one another. As he expected, her eyes are watery and her nose is turning red, and she doesn't even flinch under his gaze as she reaches up to wipe a stray tear from her cheek.

Something about her gesture and Ron's answering one as he reaches out a hand and links his fingers through Hermione's without even looking at her softens Draco's annoyance just a little, and he has to remind himself that he would be a very different man without the both of them.

"The thing is," Ron goes on, "I came back, didn't I? It wasn't easy straight off, and I did my share of apologizing for a while - not that it was any less than I should have done." He says the last part quickly and looks over at Hermione, who flashes him a small, indulgent smile.

"He could have come back," Ron's voice is softer now, and he looks down at the table with a sigh. Draco recognizes the sadness in his tone, mourning the loss of those five years with his best mate, the first years of their friendship that wouldn't have been about running for their lives or killing the Dark Lord, and Harry had abandoned him, abandoned them both.

Draco sighs and swallows thickly.

"I know that Ron," he says, gaining control of his voice again and flicking pleading eyes between his friends. "I think even he knows that now, but we can't go back and change what happened."

_And I wouldn't want to, even if we could,_ he thinks but does not say, because this is about Harry, not him.

"I won't speak for him, and I won't excuse him for leaving. But you'll have to take that up with Harry and leave me and what happened between him and me out of it, because I'm not sorry and I don't want to take it back, and you can be pleased for me or not, but it won't change how I feel about him."

Draco is breathless as the last words tumble out of his mouth almost of their own accord. He isn't sure if he intended to say so much, but he can feel the lightness from earlier beginning to creep back into his chest, and he's pleased with himself for finding the words. His pleasure only increases as he sees Hermione nodding slightly.

"Alright," she says only a bit unsteadily, "you're right, Draco. It's different for us than for you, but you've done far better than we have at really getting to the bottom of everything. I suppose it's unfair of us to hold that against either of you."

Draco is a little shocked at her admission, but then again, very little about this whole trip has been what he expected. He smiles gently at her in thanks.

"You know we've still got questions," she continues, and Draco nods.

"He knows that too," Draco says. "I told him about what I told you at the glacier, but I also told him the rest of his story was his to tell, not mine. Ron's right," Draco smirks in spite of himself at the surprised look on Ron's face at his words, "you three have history I wasn't a part of, even if I wish I had been. I can't compete with that, and I'm not trying to, but you have to mend this yourselves if you want all those years to mean something."

Draco curses the lump that he can't quite quell in his throat, and Ron's bewildered look and Hermione's shining eyes are not helping.

"Bloody hell mate, I'm sorry, that wasn't what I meant," Ron is saying, and Draco shakes himself free from trying to make sure he will _not_ tear up. "There's a fair chance we might not have made it through that year without you either, and as much as I wish Harry'd been there all that time, it doesn't change that I'm pleased as hell that you're here now."

It's Draco's turn to look bewildered, or grateful, or maybe to mirror Hermione's teary face, and he's not entirely certain, but he thinks his face probably reflects all three as he listens to Ron's sheepish words and tries to pull himself together.

"I know that too, Ron," he finally says, voice barely above a whisper, "but thanks for saying so."

The three of them sit in silence for a few moments, surreptitiously clearing throats and swiping at eyes and noses in such a ridiculous fashion that Hermione finally giggles as she watches Draco and Ron try to pretend they aren't just as sappy as she is. Seconds later they are all laughing, and it is in that moment that Harry reappears in the entrance to the tent, a look of amused confusion on his face followed by a pointed look at Draco that reminds him of the spell he'd cast.

He sheepishly mutters a _Finite Incantatem_ under his breath and rises with his friends, following them out of the tent. When he feels a hand reach up to brush at his forearm, he knows what Harry is asking without having to hear a word, and he stops, waiting to speak until his friends are out of earshot and entering their tent to gather their belongings for the climb to the top.

"They're..." Draco struggles unsuccessfully to find the right words to describe the conversation he just had. He sighs. "They'll be alright I think, with some time. They still have a lot to say to you though."

"I expected as much," Harry says softly. "I'm surprised it's gone this long." He searches Draco's face with such intensity that Draco feels a flush start to creep into his face. How can this man have _such _an effect on him?

Harry tightens the fingers still on Draco's arm in a reassuring squeeze as he asks, "Are you alright?"

Draco is so unaccustomed to such outward displays of affectionate concern from anyone other than Hermione and, to a lesser extent Ron, that he struggles for a split second to respond. It isn't that he's overwhelmed or even particularly touched by Harry's concern; it's more the surprising sense of _rightness_ that he feels at the words, like his well-being mattering to Harry makes all the sense in the world, just as Harry's does to him.

In a feeble effort to keep himself from spiralling deeper into this Gryffindor pool of sap, he puts on his best haughty face and arches an eyebrow at Harry.

"Of course," he says, but he feels his expression melt under Harry's continued scrutiny and he smiles, a real, genuine, happy smile that has the desired effect on Harry, who smiles back in relief. "I'm alright, Harry, or as alright as I can be, mostly thanks to you."

They both colour slightly at his last whispered words, and Draco wonders just when he turned into such a blushing _girl_, but he doesn't have much time to worry over it before Harry leans in to kiss him, and Draco is filled with the sweetest sense of reassurance he's ever known.

Harry pulls away too quickly, although Draco thinks perhaps anything short of eternity might be classified as _too quickly_ when it comes to kissing Harry Potter, but before he steps back, he puts his lips to Draco's ear and whispers soft words that bring that traitorous blush back to Draco's suddenly smiling face.

"I told Charles to leave your sleeping bag in with my things when he packs," he says softly, his breath warm on Draco's neck and making him shiver. "I hope that's alright too."

When Harry steps back, looking expectantly at Draco for an answer, Draco manages to subdue the smile on his face and nods with mock-gravity.

"I suppose that will be alright," he says, and Harry smiles. "If it's the sacrifice I have to make to have a well-rested guide to get me off this ridiculous mountain in one piece, I suppose another night in your tent might not be _so_ bad."

He rolls his eyes exaggeratedly as he speaks, affecting as much sarcasm as he can muster - which, owing to his Malfoy upbringing and Slytherin training, is a very great deal - but he spoils the effect somewhat with a very undignified snort and Harry laughs.

"I'm sure everyone is most grateful for your sacrifice, _Malfoy_. Now go get your things so you can see what the top of this _ridiculous_ mountain looks like in the daylight."

Harry shoves Draco lightly towards his own tent, where Ron and Hermione are already emerging, fully dressed in what Draco thinks is probably every stitch of clothing they brought on the trip. Minutes later, Draco looks just like them, layer upon layer of Muggle-made fabric blocking the frigid mountain wind from his skin as they line up at the bottom of the path he and Harry walked just a few hours ago.

Draco has already decided his friends don't need to know he's already been to the top of the mountain. After all, they came to climb it together, to reach the top together, and it was never his intention to get to the summit without them. He considers this as they trudge upward, Harry in the lead and Draco at the end of the line. They had no idea that Harry would be their guide, but then again, when they left Moshi seven days before, Draco wasn't entirely certain the four of them would make it to this point together. Of course they have a long way to go yet, but Draco can't help but draw parallels between how far they've come even since the confrontation in Harry's small, hot office and the distance they've covered geographically.

It seems fitting, he thinks, as he crests the summit behind Ron and Hermione, that the four of them should stand on this spot together, just as it seemed fitting that he and Harry sat in the same place alone the night before. There's a sense of completeness about it, and his smile when he steps up to stand at Hermione's side next to the sign he sat beneath the night before is genuine and full of joy.

Harry offers congratulations and accepts thanks, smiling at Draco over Hermione's head as she throws her arms around her old friend in her excitement. Draco is as pleased as Harry that the past hanging over their heads hasn't come with them to this place, because it really is magical and it shouldn't be marred by tears or accusations or questions.

They pose for photographs, both Muggle and Wizard, before standing for a while, looking out over the sun-drenched plains. Ron and Hermione, predictably, have drifted away by just a small distance and look, once again, as though they are the only two people on earth. Although this time, Draco supposes, they probably look just the way he felt last night with Harry in this same place, and a pleased smile splits his face as he regards his friends.

"What do you think?" Harry asks quietly, coming up next to him. He stands as close to Draco as they sat the night before, their shoulders pressed together, and Draco feels Harry's gloved hand slide down his wrist before squeezing his own covered fingers.

"It's beautiful," Draco whispers, staring out over the jungle at the bottom of the mountain and the plains, then turning to look at Harry. "But I'm partial to the view at moonrise."

And suddenly Draco is lost in warm green eyes and a smiling tan face, and the volcano beneath them could erupt and he's sure he wouldn't notice, because all he can see, all he ever _wants_ to see, is _Harry_, and it's perfect.

"I told you it was magic," Harry whispers after a while, and Draco tears his eyes away from Harry's to look back out at the horizon, Harry's words from the night before ringing in his ears again. He nods.

"It is," he says, still looking out at the distance. "I've never felt so unimportant, but even that feels magical somehow." He's not sure why he says it, but he really is struck by how small he is as he stands here, and he sees why even the great Harry Potter must love the feeling of being completely insignificant in the face of the vastness in front of him.

"Not unimportant, Draco," Harry says, his voice still soft but with a note of fierceness that drags Draco's eyes back to Harry, and his skin prickles as their eyes meet. "Not to me. And it isn't just the view that's magic, not anymore."

Draco finds himself unable to respond. It's ridiculous, he thinks somewhere behind the emotion coursing through his brain, how a handful of words from Harry can reduce him to such a Hufflepuff. He would almost be ashamed if he wasn't so bloody _happy_. Malfoys, it turns out, really are sentimental saps.

Still unable to find a way to tell Harry he understands, that he feels the same way, that he feels the magic Harry is talking about, Draco lifts a hand to Harry's face and pulls him forward to press a kiss to his lips. Draco pours every grateful fiber of his being into the kiss, thanking Harry for saving him in the Battle at Hogwarts and again with a few words in a letter five years ago, for being here now and sharing the magic of his mountain, for every kindness the other man has ever offered him, intentional or not. Because if, after all this time, he is important to Harry Potter, he thinks maybe the man might have just saved him again, and he hadn't even known he needed saving.

When Draco breaks the kiss, the thin air getting the better of his wish to do nothing else but kiss Harry Potter for the rest of his life, even Harry is gasping for breath, which pleases Draco just a little bit.

"If that was meant to be a thank you," Harry gasps, "I think I need to say things like that to you more often."

Draco smiles.

"If that's meant to be a you're welcome," he says, his own breathing coming back to normal, "I should find more ways to say thank you."

They both chuckle and resume gazing out over the plains, Harry occasionally breaking the silence to point out a landmark or town, or even a large herd of something Harry calls _wildebeests_ in the distance. The creatures evidently migrate in almost as a whole species, and are often found in groups numbering in the hundreds or thousands even outside their migration season.

Not for the first time even that day, Draco is in awe of Harry's easy knowledge of the mountain and the plains and flora and fauna that surround it. He points things out with such enthusiasm and excitement that Draco forgets he does this for a living, because it's almost as though even Harry is seeing them for the first time.

It's a dangerous line of thinking, because he knows that if he stops to think too long, he will return, also not for the first time, to the realisation that Harry is _good_ at this, and more importantly, he loves it. It seemed, the whole time they were growing up, that Harry was meant to defeat the Dark Lord, that he was put into the world to save it. Now, watching Harry excitedly show Ron and Hermione, who have rejoined them at the sign, where the border to Kenya is and point out the very ragged, very steep summit of Mount Kenya and talk animatedly about Kilimanjaro's actual crater below them, he thinks that anyone who thought Harry would always be the Saviour of the Wizarding World and nothing else was sorely mistaken.

_This_ is what he was meant to do, where he was meant to be, and Draco is envious that Harry has found something so perfect, and honoured to be a part of it, even for a few days, and something very close to devastated when he thinks about what it will mean when they get back to town and reality.

He pushes that line of thought away again, reminding himself that they still have two days on the mountain and promising himself for the thousandth time since last night that he won't ruin the time he does have on the mountain with worries about what will happen when it's over.

"If we want to make it to Milennium Camp at a reasonable hour," Harry finally says, a little of _Guide Harry_ creeping into his voice, "we'd best start down. It'll take us about six hours, and it's best not to underestimate what's ahead just because we've already made it to the top."

Draco supposes this is good advice, as the other two nod and they start the slow walk around the rim of the crater to reach the spot Harry called Gilman's Point where they will start their descent. When Weasley first proposed this little adventure, Draco did some reading about Muggle mountain-climbing, and one of the things he kept reading was that it really doesn't matter if a person makes it to the top of a mountain unless he also makes it back to the bottom. Apparently the Muggle climbing community is more than a little obsessed with finding some camera that's supposedly lost on Mount Everest, because it might prove that two men got to the top of it in 1924. But since they died before they got back to the bottom, Draco isn't sure why it should make any difference.

Not that this is the same thing; he knows perfectly well that their group will arrive back in Moshi unscathed, at least from the climb, but it does serve as a good reminder that the trip isn't over, and for that he is grateful.

It becomes clear shortly after they begin the downclimb in earnest that descending is nothing to be trifled with. The route descends through an ash pit, and is so steep that they slide a metre with every step. Draco can barely keep his feet under him, and he thinks, after half an hour or so, that he's spent more time on his arse than he has on his feet. His toes are crammed into the fronts of his boots in an extremely painful manner, his thighs are burning, and if his friends' faces are any indication, his own is most likely black with soot.

Still, he can't help but smile as he watches Harry help Hermione, who took a particularly long slide a few moments ago and is probably thirty or so metres below him. Once Harry checked to see that she wasn't injured after her fall, he started standing a few steps below her, essentially allowing her to slide into his planted feet as she picks her way down the ash. Draco knows Ron is watching too, and that he will appreciate anything that might make this easier on Hermione, because she is undoubtedly in as much discomfort as they, and her fall was more than a little spectacular.

Draco can't watch long, and in fact he can't even spare much time to think about Harry or Hermione or the unspoken words and unasked questions between the two of them, because the terrain is requiring every ounce of concentration he can muster and more.

At long last, he looks down to see Harry and Hermione sitting on a rock outcropping near a couple of tents, and when he looks over his shoulder, he realises they've made it through the ash pit. He slips again as he exhales his gratitude in a muttered, "thank bloody Merlin," but he laughs with Ron as his friend catches up with him and pulls him back to his feet by the shoulder of his shirt, and within another minute they are sitting with Harry and Hermione and Charles is bringing them the best awful cup of tea Draco has ever had.

Before too long they're on their feet again, and Draco is beginning to worry that his legs won't move tomorrow if the pain he's already feeling is any indication, but Harry assures them it's only a few more hours to camp, and that they'll sleep better for the exertion.

Hermione pulls a face and flips a choice gesture at the back of Harry's head as he starts back downhill in a decidedly un-Hermione-like fashion, and Draco snorts. Maybe things will work out after all.


	10. Chapter Nine

_As always, my thanks to all of you for reading and commenting, and to the usual suspects, who still know who they are._

_Some of the anecdotal details contained herein are mine, though if you take the path to the top of Africa, your mileage may vary. All fictional elements referred to herein belong to their respective owners. Harry Potter is Rowling's. No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

_

It is a bedraggled and exhausted group that stumbles into camp that evening, and Draco nearly falls into the chair Charles offers him outside the cook tent. Harry smiles but wisely says nothing, looking unruffled and far cleaner than the rest of them. Draco thinks if Harry so much as smirks as they slump in their chairs, all three of them will hex him without a thought.

A meal, which Charles serves outside, because the temperature at this camp is far more pleasant than any they've felt in several nights, and the pleasantly surprising addition of a bottle of Firewhiskey, which Harry says is customary the night after a successful summit, bring them all slightly back to life. The suggestion of soap and water to clean their ash-covered faces and hair is met with even greater enthusiasm, and within minutes, Draco's head is tipped back, eyes locked on Harry's as Harry once again runs skillful fingers gently through his hair.

"We don't always do this here, you know," Harry says under his breath.

"No?" Draco can barely manage coherent thought as Harry massages his scalp, but as far as he's concerned, this should be included in every night on the mountain and maybe for the rest of his life. He groans unashamedly with pleasure.

Harry shakes his head as he lets more water trickle over the suds on Draco's forehead and chuckles. "No. We'll be back at the hotel tomorrow after all. I was just looking for an excuse to get you to make that sound again."

He winks at Draco's half-hearted glare and in a particularly heartless move, splashes cold water all over his face. When Draco finishes sputtering long enough to let loose a choice string of expletives, Harry is reduced to cackles, and only recovers himself when Draco threatens to move his sleeping bag back into his own tent unless Harry stops being such a heartless prat.

He hums happily and closes his eyes, focusing just on _feeling_ as Harry drags a towel over his head and rubs the water from his hair and face, then setting the towel aside and dragging his fingers through Draco's hair in a makeshift brushing motion that he knows is just more of an excuse, and he has no intention of complaining. When Harry's fingers finally cease their soothing motions, Draco opens his eyes and is surprised to see uncertainty knitting Harry's brow.

"Harry?" He asks gently, not sure what brought the crease between Harry's eyes, but knowing he wants very badly to make it go away.

"I...will you do mine?" Harry's voice is soft and just as uncertain as his face, but Draco already knows his hesitation isn't because he thinks Draco will say no.

Draco nods and stands, putting reassuring hands on Harry's shoulders and lightly pushing him into the chair. He's not sure why his hands are shaking, not after everything that happened in Harry's tent the night before. It isn't as though they haven't shared more than a few intimate caresses, but this is something of _Harry's_, and for some reason it seems sacred.

Still, it isn't long before he's lost in the feel of silky hair and suds, and he won't let Harry break eye contact for more than a second or two, wanting so badly to keep him here in this moment instead of wandering back into a past Harry can't bring back and Draco is afraid he can't compete with, especially in this place. So Draco scrubs and kneads and massages, seeking out places that make Harry emit little whimpers and hums of pleasure or, even better, let a small smile cross his face, smoothing out the creases between his eyes.

But he isn't without a little bit of pride, and when he's letting streams of water wash the suds from Harry's hair and he catches Harry's eyes welling with tears as he smooths over his wet scalp, Draco sighs.

"I'm not him, Harry," he says quietly, being careful to keep all emotion out of his voice so Harry won't think he's accusing or mocking. He just has to make sure Harry knows this is different, because he's not sure he's up for being a substitute, even as the logical part of his brain tells him he's being stupid and insecure, and to shut up before he ruins everything.

Harry blinks at him, a lone tear escaping his right eye, but thankfully he holds Draco's gaze.

"I know," he whispers. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you think..." Harry squeezes his eyes shut for a second and Draco waits, holding his breath.

"It's the opposite actually." Harry finally speaks again. "I was thinking, well, there was a time I never thought I'd let anyone else do this. It isn't that it was _ours_ really, it's not such an unusual thing to do. It's just that it always reminds - no, that's not right. It always _reminded_ me of him."

Draco is staring at Harry now, the angle awkward since he's looking down at Harry's upturned face, but he's frozen in place, waiting.

"Until today." Harry's voice is small and quiet. "Today all I can think about is _you_. For years I equated this with him, and now...,"

He trails off and Draco tries to stop the thoughts swirling in his head.

"Harry, I-"

"The tears are because I'm not sorry, Draco, and I don't know what that means. I know you're not him, believe me. I've never been so aware of anything in my whole life, or so...so glad. You don't have to say anything, and I'm sorry if, well, I'm sorry."

Draco gulps and lets Harry's words wash over him for a moment, considering. He's never been much for comforting people, he supposes because comfort wasn't one of the more commonly-displayed gestures in his childhood. And he's never needed to be the primary provider of solace for Ron or Hermione, since they've always had one another. Still, he's pretty certain that's what this instance calls for, and he's not about to let Harry down now.

"Don't be," he says finally, gently rubbing a towel through Harry's wet hair, in no small part to give himself something to do. "I can't speak for him, you know that, and I wouldn't dishonour his memory by presuming to do so. All I know is that you're young, Harry, and you've seen more than your share of terrible things and lost more than your share of people you loved. If you can be happy climbing a mountain or sleeping in a bloody cold Muggle tent or watching the moonrise with me, then you should do every one of those things as often as you can, because you're due some happiness.

"And if this," Draco holds up the towel he's just pulled from Harry's hair before setting it on the ground, "makes you happy or brings you a little bit of solace or just plain _feels good_, then you should let me do this as often as you can, too, and you shouldn't be sorry about any of it."

He's a little flushed and his voice is a little elevated, but Draco hasn't broken eye contact with Harry, and he thinks he's quelled his own insecurity long enough to get his point across. In a flash, Harry is out of the chair and in front of Draco, and for the second time in a day, he's certain there aren't words in any language that can possibly say _thank you_ as well as kissing Harry Potter. Or, in this instance, being kissed by Harry Potter. He thinks he knows what Harry felt earlier, up on the summit, and he's overwhelmed and ecstatic and grateful all at once. His stupid insecurities, the same ones he's had since a little boy in wire-rimmed glasses wouldn't shake his hand when he was eleven because he was a complete prat, shatter and crumble and finally dissolve with every swipe of Harry's tongue and nip of his teeth on Draco's lips and the warmth of his breath mingling with Draco's when he finally pulls away to rest their foreheads together.

"If that was meant to be a thank you..." Draco trails off as Harry chuckles, placing another soft kiss on Draco's lips before stepping back.

"It was," Harry says, "but I'll be happy to convey my gratitude again later if you're having doubts."

"Hm," Draco says, relieved that Harry is smiling again and suddenly very much eyeing Harry's tent, set off away from the others in a copse of strange jungle trees. "I wasn't doubting before, but now that you mention it, I might be amenable to a little more convincing. Just to be certain."

He waggles his eyebrows in what he's sure is a completely ridiculous manner, and Harry snickers in confirmation, but there's another layer of tension gone and Draco is grateful and a little silly with the knowledge.

He's startled from his reverie by the sudden approach of Hermione, a determined look on her face and a somber-looking Ron at her side.

"Harry," she says quietly, but, Draco notices, not unkindly, "I think it's time we talked, if you don't mind?"

She poses it as a question, but Draco knows that look, and he thinks Harry does too as he nods slowly. There's no saying no to that look, no matter what it is Hermione is asking for. Besides, Draco knows Harry has been expecting this, and Draco is almost grateful that all the questions will finally be asked and answered, just as he'd hoped they would be when he begged his friends to follow through on the climb after realizing Harry would be their guide.

Harry turns to look at him, but Draco is looking at Hermione. Harry wasn't privy to the conversation in the breakfast tent, and Draco knows his friends aren't looking to replace him with Harry any more than he was Harry's replacement five years ago. Still, their pain is different from Draco's, and he's long since made peace with Harry's departure. As he knew she would, Hermione understands his unspoken question and she smiles reassuringly.

"If you don't mind, Draco, this might be easier for all of us if we can talk to Harry alone." She puts a hand on Harry's arm before he can react, although Draco doubts that Harry's especially afraid now, since he's had a chance to tell his story once already.

Draco smiles though, because he also recognizes her gesture for what it is: reassurance. He thinks perhaps he's made a few inroads on Harry's behalf himself, and he's pleased with the idea.

Hermione and Ron turn back to the circle of chairs they occupied during supper. Harry turns to follow them, but looks back at Draco almost shyly first.

"I imagine this might take a while," he says, "but if you want to wait in my tent, I'm also fairly sure I'd rather not be alone when it's over. Only if you want, though."

Draco can't stop the smile that comes, both at Harry's repeated invitation and at the sudden shyness, which he thinks has a little to do with whatever changed between them moments before, and a little to do with the conversation he's about to have. He reaches out to squeeze Harry's hand.

"I'll be waiting, and you'll be fine. I think, well, I think after a week on your mountain, they're starting to understand."

Harry quirks an eyebrow as he squeezes back.

"Draco, you know this isn't really _my_ mountain. No one can _own_ a mountain, not even a Malfoy." His tone is playful, and he chuckles in a way that makes Draco want to shove him a little and kiss him a lot.

"I know that, you git," Draco sniffs, "but to me, and I think to them too, this will always be _your _mountain. It wouldn't have been the same without you."

Harry's smile is surprised and genuine, and Draco squeezes his fingers once more before letting go. "Go," he says. "You know where to find me."

Harry nods and turns back to the circle of chairs and Draco watches him situate his own chair opposite both Ron and Hermione, his back to the cook tent, an expectant look on his face. Draco can't hear a thing already, and he knows someone has cast a Silencing Charm, for which he is admittedly grateful. He doesn't even want the temptation of knowing what's being said, and he stops at the tent he occupied with Ron and Hermione until the night before only long enough to collect a book and his ridiculous headlamp before heading off to Harry's tent to settle in for what he anticipates might be a long evening.

He grins in spite of himself as he ducks into the little tent. There, just as they left them this morning at the top of the mountain, are his and Harry's sleeping bags, carefully zipped together. Draco strips to his pants and an undershirt and slides beneath the top layer, shuddering as the cool fabric hits his skin. The girl at the Muggle outfitting shop had explained this was normal, but Draco hasn't managed to grow accustomed to it yet, and he thinks the silly contraptions would be much improved with some sort of built-in warming charm.

Still, he's only just clicked on the light in his headlamp and begun flipping pages when he finds himself quite comfortable, although he's fairly buzzing with anticipation about what's happening outside.

He goes through the motions of reading for what might be minutes or hours, he has no idea, and the words on the page blur with the scenarios playing out in his head in a decidedly disturbing fashion that he realizes somewhere have turned into dreams, but he can't seem to escape them.

Finally, Draco feels something warm graze his forehead, and he awakens to see Harry peering down at him tiredly in the dim light of the headlamp he's pulling off Draco's head. In an instant, Draco is fully awake and searching Harry's face for any sign of what's just happened, for a smile or tear tracks or the return of the creases in his forehead Draco had hoped to clear away earlier. He is met with a small, tired smile, and the slight upturn of Harry's lips gives Draco a spark of hope, but he holds his tongue with great effort.

He _will_ let Harry speak first.

Harry strips his own clothes off and crawls into the sleeping bag at Draco's side, draping himself over his chest and pulling Draco's left arm across his body, letting out a long, soft sigh.

"I think," he says so softly Draco feels the vibrations against his body almost more easily than he makes out Harry's words. "I think I made them understand."

Draco lets the breath he'd been holding out in a _whoosh_, and he twines his fingers through Harry's.

"Do you want to talk about it?" He asks, equally softly, because Harry seems just a little fragile, and Draco thinks he might break if Draco's voice is too loud or he holds on too hard.

"No. Yes. I don't know." Harry says, and Draco waits. "I suppose none of it was a great surprise, especially not after talking to you. I knew when I left that a note wasn't enough, that a few lines on a piece of parchment and a late-night disappearing act were cowardly and nothing short of a betrayal of every single damned thing they went through with me - _for_ me. I knew all of that, and I did it anyway, and there's nothing I can say now that makes that alright."

Draco is quiet, but he begins to run his thumb over Harry's absently, trying to offer just the slightest bit of comfort without distracting him from whatever he thinks he needs to say.

"I hurt her most with the note, I know that, but I...gods, Draco, what I did to Ron? How can any of you look me in the face after I what I put him through? I never meant for anyone else to think there was a single thing that would have changed what I did! Everyone was kind and grateful and wonderful, more to me than to anyone else anywhere I suspect, since I was the bloody _Saviour_. Never mind I couldn't have done any of it without the two of them, and never mind that it wasn't enough to help all the people whose lives were ruined because I didn't do enough. Unless someone could have turned back time and saved my parents and made sure Voldemort never existed and erased all the fighting and dying and funerals, there wasn't a damned thing anyone could have done to keep me in London for one more second!

"I should have talked to them, I just," Harry pauses, trying to calm himself down, Draco thinks, and Draco presses a kiss to Harry's forehead and feels him relax just the slightest bit against his side. "I tried to leave them behind once before, when I found out about the Horcruxes, and they were having none of it. The thing is, I wanted everyone else to have the life I thought I couldn't - a normal one, d'you see?"

Draco murmurs his understanding, because he does see. Harry, in all his 18-year-old naivete, had thought that if he went away, everyone he cared for could begin their quests for normalcy all the faster. He just hadn't taken into account how much those people wanted him to have the same experience, and to be there with them for theirs.

"Anyway, I'm not sure I can ever make that up to Ron, but I guess that just means I'm lucky he's Ron and he's loyal, and somehow even though I'm a great tosser, we're still mates." Harry takes a deep breath and Draco smiles, because he'd known all along that Ron would forgive Harry, because loyalty and friendship are more important to Weasley than being right and holding grudges could ever be. "I think if Ron had gone another way with it, Hermione might have as well. She waited for his reaction, I've never seen her do that before."

"You've never really had the chance to see them together, Harry." Draco says almost without thought. If there's one thing he can speak to with certainty, it's this. "It isn't that she doesn't have her own ideas, believe me, she has as many of those now as she ever has. But if something's really important to Ron, it's not much of a question which way Hermione will fall on the issue. Not really important like who will win the Quidditch Cup, since Ron's usually wrong about that anyway, but things like, well, _you_? It makes sense she'd take his reaction into account."

Harry nods thoughtfully.

"I thought as much," he says. "Ron no more than put out a hand and clapped me on the shoulder and Hermione had me in a hug so tight I thought she was trying to do me in."

Draco chuckles, feeling lighter with the knowledge that none of the more terrifying scenarios that pervaded his dreams - most of which ended in Harry being hit with any number of increasingly unpleasant spells - had actually played out. His heart still aches for Harry, who he knows is harbouring a whole new bout of guilt over Ron, but if he's honest, a handshake from Ron and one of Hermione's sometimes-dangerous hugs are more than he could have asked for as a starting point.

"Does it ever still hurt?" Draco looks down at Harry, confused at his question until he realizes Harry has turned their clasped hands over and is tracing the black lines of ink on the inside of Draco's forearm with a finger.

Draco swallows, all the nerves he should have felt earlier suddenly hitting him all at once. Harry's question wasn't one he was expecting tonight, although he's slightly relieved to discover he's no longer afraid Harry will throw him out of the tent in the cold over his answer.

"Not _hurt_, exactly," he says finally, watching Harry's finger trace the lines. "More like, I don't know, like something that _used_ to hurt, and you have such a strong memory of the pain that sometimes you think it's still there, do you see? I read a book about Muggles who lose limbs, and they have these ghost pains and sensations. They say they can still _feel_ the arm or leg or hand or foot, even though it's gone. I suppose it's a bit like that."

Harry nods slowly and pulls Draco's arm to his lips, pressing them softly against the inked skin, and Draco's breath catches.

"I was hoping it didn't hurt," Harry says, whispering against the sensitive skin on Draco's arm, his lips brushing the Mark as he speaks. "I'm tired of everyone hurting because of things that happened years ago."

Draco shivers, and he doesn't know if Harry is talking about what happened during the war or after, or if he's talking about the fallout from his own departure, but as Harry's mouth moves over his forearm and down to his wrist, suddenly he really doesn't care.

He doesn't know if it's the anticipation of skin-to-skin contact with Harry that he's been thinking about since they left this very tent that morning, or the fact that he's not oxygen-starved for the first time in days, or maybe just the fact that it's _Harry_, but Draco is absolutely certain Harry is going to drive him mad with just the sensation of his lips and tongue and the scruffy stubble on his jaw running over skin that's only ever been sensitive from pain before.

Draco usually does his best to underplay the Mark when he meets someone. He's never been one to hide it; it isn't as though everyone in London isn't aware that Draco Malfoy was a Death Eater, whether it was something he really wanted or not. He's just always preferred not to visit that part of his past in an intimate moment.

Until now, because _fuck_ if whatever Harry's doing with his tongue doesn't feel amazing, and Draco is shamelessly aware of his desire to have that tongue doing the same thing everywhere else on his body. He whimpers, and Harry chuckles, apparently pleased with himself as he releases Draco's hand and shifts from his position on Draco's chest to rest his elbows on either side of Draco's head. He hovers there, just _looking_, and Draco is positive that Harry's sole intent really is to drive him mad, mad with desire and need and lust and something else maybe, something he can't think about just now.

Finally Harry lowers his head to meet Draco's lips with his own and Draco can feel Harry's need in the pressure of his lips and the tangle of their tongues. He groans a little in anticipation and reaches down to tug the hem of Harry's shirt up in an unspoken plea for more skin, more anything, more _Harry._

When Harry pulls away to allow Draco to all but yank the shirt over his head, he copies Draco's gesture, then tugs on the waist of Draco's pants, sliding them over his legs and throwing them Merlin knows where in the tiny tent, and before long they're pressed against each other, naked and panting and staring, eyes locked and breaths ragged. Harry lifts a hand to smooth a wayward hair from Draco's forehead in another of his little gestures that are so surprising and intimate that Draco is beginning to wonder if he's got them filed away somewhere under the heading _Things to Do to Make Draco Malfoy Turn Into a Complete Sap_.

"Draco," Harry's whisper is low and rough, "I'm glad you're here."

Because he can't find words, and because he doesn't trust his voice not to betray him anyway, Draco decides to forgo a response and instead kisses Harry fiercely, trusting the other man to once again understand the _thank you_ in the press of lips.

He does, it seems, and he kisses Draco back with the same ferocity, rolling him back to his back and then pulling away to begin what Draco can only hope is an endless line of kisses and licks down his neck and chest, covering every line of raised flesh on Draco's torso with kisses that tonight don't say _I'm sorry_, but instead feel like _I'm grateful too_. As he slides down to kneel between Draco's legs, dragging sure fingers across Draco's rib cage and stomach before settling them on his hips, Harry looks back up, and Draco is again overcome at the request for permission he sees in the lust-glazed eyes staring at him.

"Harry," he rasps, "_please_."

Harry lowers his lips to Draco's cock, dragging the same slow kisses up its length the he applied to Draco's arm moments before, and Draco squirms and arches into every hot press of lips and swipe of tongue. At last, when Harry reaches the tip and Draco thinks he just might die or go mad _again_ from the anticipation, he wraps a hand around Draco's erection and takes him into his mouth, and it's all Draco can do not to shout from the pleasure of the sensation. Harry licks and sucks and strokes, his breath sending vibrations over Draco's cock that make him twitch even more.

Draco is sure he's babbling, whispered streams of curses and _yes_ and _Harry_ flying from his lips without pause, and his fists clench around the fabric beneath him as he arches and wriggles and begs for more. Harry slides his mouth off Draco's cock long enough to make Draco peel his eyes open to look down at him. What he sees and the anticipation of what it means nearly does Draco in right then and there. Harry stares back at him, his own fingers in his mouth, face flushed and eyes glittering.

He pulls his fingers free from his lips, but he doesn't break Draco's gaze when he asks, "Is this...I mean, is this alright?"

Even in his desire-filled haze, Draco is moved at Harry's concern. It isn't that he's not had considerate lovers in the past, but there is so much history and emotion between them, and every kind word or gesture seems like something fragile and sacred, to be locked away for safe-keeping forever. But he can do nothing more than nod helplessly, begging with his eyes for the _more_ he can't make his lips form the words for.

Harry is still stroking Draco's cock as he lowers his other hand to tease gently at his entrance, and Draco hisses at the blur of sensations as Harry's fingers circle and press until finally he gently slides one finger inside and Draco moans and presses back against the stroking and twisting and nods and shakes his head all at once, because he's afraid this will end too soon, but he can't stop from wanting _more Harry please_.

He hears Harry mutter a spell that sounds like _Accio_, although what he's summoning is beyond Draco's lust-addled brain until he feels Harry slide his finger away and looks up to see a small vial in his shaking hands. He doesn't even wait for the question or the look, instead pushing himself up until he's seated and winding fingers through Harry's ridiculous hair and whispering words of encouragement against Harry's lips, all the while feeling Harry's fingers deftly pulling the stopper from the bottle that's pressed between their chests.

He feels Harry pour the contents of the bottle into his palm, feels the muscles in Harry's shoulders tense and ripple as he strokes his own cock to coat it with the oil, feels his own erection twitch in anticipation and response to Harry's soft groans against his lips, and when Harry pushes him back into the sleeping bags and pillows and scattered clothing, he's buzzing with _want_.

Harry's slicked fingers find his entrance again, and he presses in a first, then a second, twisting and coaxing until Draco begs him for more, and he gently pushes a third in and Draco's back arches into the _painpleasure_ of the stretch. Draco stares at Harry as he feels Harry slide his fingers out and watches as he runs a shiny hand over his cock before gently pushing Draco's knees up and apart. Draco gasps as he feels Harry pressing against his entrance and nearly bites his own lip, but _Merlin_ every touch feels so bloody _good_.

"Okay?" Harry asks softly, his voice a little shaky as he runs his free hand over Draco's shin and bends to press a kiss to his knee.

Draco smiles and nods, and he feels Harry slowly pushing past his entrance, taking his breath away with the stretching, burning sensation, but even that is dulled by Harry's whispered babbling, and Draco gets lost in the dazed eyes and flicking tongue and the strangest string of curses and endearments and nonsense he's maybe ever heard in his life.

Harry stills above him, shoulders quivering and licks his lips, and Draco feels the burn fade away, appreciative of the care Harry has shown and the moment to get used to the feeling of someone else - of _Harry_ - inside him, but gods all he wants now is for the man to _move_.

He lifts a hand from his side and runs it up Harry's arm, feeling the tensed muscles he's using to hold himself over Draco's torso, then back down to wrap around his wrist, and he carefully, slowly lifts his hips, asking, begging for more. Harry's eyes go wide at the motion and he shudders and hums, but he obliges Draco's request and begins rolling his own hips, thrusting with maddening hesitation that Draco knows has nothing to do with concern now.

"Tease," he pants as he lifts to meet Harry's thrusts, and Harry smiles and lowers himself down to take Draco's lips in a kiss that leaves him breathless.

When he pulls away he sets a faster rhythm that renders Draco incapable of doing anything except _feeling_ as Harry pushes deeper inside and kisses and licks at Draco's neck and shoulders and slides a hand between them to grip at Draco's cock.

"Harry..._fuck_...gods...Harry Harry Harry..."

Draco thinks he continues to chant Harry's name over and over as Harry thrusts and strokes, and he reaches his own hand down to cover Harry's when he knows he's close and Harry covers his mouth with a hard, needy, open-mouthed kiss as Draco sees white balls of light explode behind his eyes and he moans into Harry's mouth as he comes over their hands.

Harry thrusts again and again, once, twice, three times before his head flies up and his neck arches and all Draco hears is a litany of his own name tumbling from Harry's lips as he falls over the edge and slumps into the crook of Draco's shoulder, gasping.

Draco has no idea how long they lie there, panting and sticky and tangled before he hears Harry's breathing begin to regulate and feels him slide away and cast one of those chill-inducing cleaning spells. With effort, he peels his eyes open, blinking through the lingering haze of pleasure to see Harry propped up on a shaky elbow and gazing at him.

"What?" Draco asks, rather proud of the steadiness in his voice since the look on Harry's face has ignited the _curlsmolder_ place in his chest with such force that he almost puts a hand to his ribs.

Harry reaches out a hand and runs it over Draco's chest, tracing the scarred lines before settling a flattened palm against his ribs right over that _place_ and making Draco gasp.

"It's...different," Harry stumbles over the words, but Draco thinks he already knows what Harry means. "With you I mean, at least for me. You know how it is, with someone new, and it takes a while before..."

He trails off and bites his lip, absently lining his fingers up with the indentations between Draco's ribs and looking pointedly _not_ at Draco's face.

"Before you're comfortable? Before you _fit_?" Draco whispers. "Before you feel _this_?" He leans up and nudges Harry's forehead with his until their eyes meet, then brushes a soft kiss across Harry's lips that feels like the crackle in the air during a duel or the disorienting twist that accompanies apparition. When Draco settles his head back, Harry follows, deepening the kiss until Draco's insides begin to twist with want again, but of a different kind this time. Arousal, though nearly constant in Harry's presence, is overpowered by the _something more_ he's been feeling, and he's simultaneously intrigued and terrified by whatever it is, and by the knowledge that it's hit him like a tidal wave in just seven short days on Harry's mountain.

Harry pulls back, resting his cheek on Draco's chest and squirming to pull the sleeping bag over the both of them against the mild chill that has started to creep into the tent.

"I've never felt that before," he says, and Draco's heart leaps, because neither has he, but he's the first to admit that most of his relationships have been doomed from the start, mostly because he's measured every single one against an idea of Harry that he now knows was nothing more than a pale, inadequate substitute for the real thing lying in his arms. "Not with Ginny, not with...well, not ever, Draco."

Draco tightens his arm around Harry's back, hiding his smile in Harry's hair as if someone might see it and threaten to take it away or call him out for the great sap he really is.

"Neither have I," he confesses softly, and he feels Harry's lips curve in his own smile against Draco's chest. He still hasn't moved his hand from over the _curlsmolder _place, but Draco notices that Harry's touch has made the burning that's been there for so long subside, like salve on a wound, and he sighs.

He wants to ask Harry what it means, what they'll do now, what will happen tomorrow when they leave the magic of the mountain and return to their hotel and Harry goes...where? His home? Draco realizes he doesn't even know where Harry lives, since the only image he has of the man is in this tent. But Harry has twisted from his place on Draco's chest and is trailing the most distracting kisses across his collarbone, and in the spirit of embracing the magic of Harry's wonderful mountain, Draco closes his eyes and hums his approval and lets Harry push away his fears with soft kisses and murmured words and magic-that-isn't-magic until they are both too tired to do anything but curl up together and give in to sleep.


	11. Chapter Ten

_As always, my thanks to all of you for reading and commenting, and to the usual suspects, who still know who they are._

_Some of the anecdotal details contained herein are mine, though if you take the path to the top of Africa, your mileage may vary. All fictional elements referred to herein belong to their respective owners. Harry Potter is Rowling's. No copyright infringement intended.

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When Draco blinks against the bright morning sun streaming in through the yellow walls of Harry's tent, he's more than a little pleased to hear Harry's deep, even breathing in the stillness. He lies still for a moment, his head in the crook of Harry's chest, arm thrown across his torso. Indulging his contentedness, he replays the night before in his head, unable to keep the smile from his lips as Harry's admission that he too feels something _different_ echoes in his head.

Draco gently extricates himself from Harry's sleep-slackened hold and props himself up on an elbow, taking the opportunity to just _look_. Harry is handsome - beautiful even, at least to Draco - at any time of day. But asleep, he is positively stunning. All the worry and sadness are gone, the creases in his brow smooth and the clench of his jaw slack, leaving a carefree face. Draco wants to reach up and touch it, but he's afraid he'll wake Harry, and he thinks two straight nights of sleep might be more than Harry's had in a very long time.

So he keeps his hands to himself, but drags his eyes down to look at Harry's bare chest and arms, all sinew and muscle even in sleep. A distinctive line betrays where the high-altitude sun has turned Harry's face and neck and forearms to a deep shade of tan, contrasting sharply with the pale skin of his shoulders and torso, which are nearly as light as Draco's own, though the hair on his chest and belly that trails down past his navel in a deliciously teasing line that dips beneath the sleeping bag is much darker, and Draco has to lick his lips and drag his eyes away to resist the temptation to follow that line with his fingers.

He sees gooseflesh break out over Harry's skin at the same time he notices the hitch in his breath that indicates he's probably waking up. Satisfied he won't be the reason Harry's sleep is interrupted, he puts a hand up to the stubble-covered jaw, waiting for the gesture he's somehow certain will follow it.

He doesn't have to wait long as Harry reaches up to wrap fingers around his wrist and turn his face to kiss Draco's palm. He still hasn't opened his eyes, and Draco smiles and tucks his head back down against Harry's neck. After all, if the guide isn't awake, the expedition certainly isn't going anywhere, right?

They lie there a while, their breaths coming smooth and even and matched in rhythm so closely that they sound like one. The only evidence that either of them is awake comes in the form of the occasional absent kiss to wrist or forehead or collarbone, and the resulting hum or sigh of pleasure. It's unhurried and comfortable, and Draco cannot stop the thought that he could really get used to this from parading through his head.

When Draco feels Harry stretch beneath him, muscles rolling and flexing, he pulls his head up far enough to look at Harry's face, which is lit by a small, contented smile. His eyes are open now, and even more clear of the smudges and tiredness that had been so obvious two nights past.

"Hi," Harry says sleepily, and Draco chuckles.

"You seem to be rather fond of that greeting in the mornings, don't you?" He asks, effecting as haughty a tone as he can manage while naked and pressed against a delightfully handsome and equally naked morning-after Harry Potter. Which, he guesses, is not very haughty at all.

Harry grins. "I don't notice you being in a great rush to leave when I say it, so it must not be so bad. Besides," his grin is positively mischievous now, "if you consider what I might have said to you if I'd woken up next to you at _school_, 'hi' seems rather pleasant, doesn't it?"

Draco snorts, trying with absolutely no success to imagine an alternate universe that would have seen the two of them waking up like this back then and _not_ immediately firing hexes at one another. For all the times he's wished for this very thing - well, something like it anyway, usually without the tent, although he's grown to really like this tiny yellow dome - he never thought it truly possible for the two of them as adults, much less if he'd looked back at them as teenagers.

Then again...

A thought comes to him, and Draco can't stop the words before they tumble out of his mouth.

"In your office that first day, you said I had an effect on you," he says, staring up at Harry who is suddenly looking very hard at the ceiling of the tent. "Did you mean just that day? You didn't, did you?"

He knows the answer, it's written clear as day on Harry's reddening face, but he wants to hear Harry say it. He doesn't know why it's so important, those days are gone and forgotten, and he's the first to lead the charge never to bring them back, but for some reason Draco just...needs to know.

Draco shimmies up until their faces are level and lifts himself onto an elbow to peer straight down into Harry's face, making it almost impossible for Harry to break his gaze. When he tries, thinking to turn his head, Draco brings his free hand back up to graze over Harry's jaw and hold him there, staring down into his eyes pleadingly.

"Does it matter, Draco, really?" Harry whispers, and Draco nods, because it does. Harry sighs. "I didn't know it was _this_, not really." He gestures vaguely to indicate the tiny space between their naked chests. "It started really in sixth year; I watched you all the time, you knew that. But I sort of realised that maybe...well, you were sort of nice to look at when you weren't being a complete arse - which wasn't often, by the way - and then when I hexed you..."

He trails off, face shifting from nervous to playful to serious in an instant. He brings a hand up to brush fingers over the topmost scars on Draco's chest and sighs again.

"You were going to _Crucio_ me, and I knew it, and yet all I could think afterwards was how I nearly killed you and gods, Draco, I've never felt guilt like that in my whole life, not even when I couldn't save everyone in the battle. Not even when I watched people I loved die because they were trying to keep me safe. It took me a long time to realise that a good deal of that guilt probably came from feeling something other than hate for you, not that I'd have admitted it then."

Draco's mind is whirling with confusion and happiness, because he doesn't know why this matters since they're here now anyway, but he's undeniably _pleased_.

"At the same time, I kept watching all our friends pair off and wondering why what I had with Ginny didn't seem quite the same as all that. I liked Ginny, I did. She was pretty and smart, her family had already taken me in, I just never felt...well, you know what I never felt."

Draco smiles and presses a soft kiss against Harry's lips, both in answer and in thanks, and when he pulls away, Harry smiles and whispers, "Exactly."

"The trouble was, my mind ran my sort of, erm, well, _obsession_ I suppose, with you on a parallel track with the realistion that I wasn't particularly interested in Ginny in particular and girls in general. Since they never crossed, I didn't figure it out. Seems I'm a bit daft, just as you've always suspected, hm?"

Draco just snorts and shakes his head, his curiosity more or less satisfied, because he came to the same gradual realisation himself, and he knows what Harry is talking about. The _idea_ of Harry floated around in his head for years, more years even than it had in Harry's probably, since he was far more affected by their first meeting than the little boy with the glasses and the scar had been. Then one morning he woke up, and over very bad tea in a very shabby tent on some cliffs in Merlin-knew-where on their search for Harry, he'd discovered that the _idea _had moved from his head into his heart, and that was that.

"But eventually?" Draco murmurs, and Harry nods.

"I was up here, actually, alone, and I had a bout of altitude sickness. What? Don't look at me like that, it happens to all of us sometimes, despite how much it irritates you that this looks so easy for me." Harry winks at Draco, who sticks his tongue out petulantly.

"For someone so daft, Potter, you certainly do think you have a good handle on what's going on in my head," he says, pouting a little.

"It isn't hard, _Malfoy_," Harry says, laughing. "You wear it all over your face!"

Draco has to literally bite down on his tongue to keep the childish "do not!" from slipping out, but his mouth quirks with Harry's chuckles, and eventually he grins a little sheepishly.

"You were saying?" He says, and Harry rolls his eyes at Draco's obvious change of subject.

"It was the coughing fits that made me think of you, of _this_ really," the fingers slide over his scars again and Draco shivers, "and of all the hundreds of things I could have done differently that day when I saw you. Despite your gratitude for the whole thing, Draco, that wasn't one of my proudest moments, and not only because I hexed you. I was supposed to be everyone's bloody saviour, but I couldn't find single bit of compassion, and of all the spells I knew, I chose the _one_ that I'd never seen before, the one I couldn't be sure of. I hurt you because I couldn't find it in myself to use something I knew _wouldn't_ hurt you.

"So I sat up here, hacking and wheezing and feeling a little like I thought you must have, because it felt like someone had sliced into my chest, and all that guilt came back. By then, of course, I'd already set up Wanderlust and had figured out why I didn't want to marry Ginny or any other witch I'd ever met, and I knew what it was to feel pain because someone I cared about was in pain, and I realised that all that guilt for hurting you was because I really didn't hate you at all."

The cursed lump that Draco has been fighting down in his throat every time he and Harry really _talk_ about the past is rising again, but Draco still can't suppress the smile as Harry finally looks up from where his fingers have come to rest on Draco's collarbone, a thumb still tracing his scars. He doesn't know what to say, really, because Harry's words are everything he wanted to hear, and he wouldn't even believe he heard them if it wasn't for the searching look in Harry's eyes, and the barely-noticeable increases in the pressure of the hand against his skin and the rise and fall of Harry's chest. He knows he has to find the right words, and he briefly wonders where on earth his powers of speech have gone, because speechless is not one of the many adjectives he or anyone else would typically use to describe Draco Malfoy.

"It's been a long time for me, too," he whispers, watching nervousness begin to fade from Harry's face as he speaks. "I'm not sure I always knew it either, although you did have a certain talent for getting under my skin that no one else I'd ever known shared."

It's Harry's turn to snort, and Draco realises that the teasing is an important part of these confessions for both of them. Challenge is a part of who they were and who they are, they've just stripped away the animosity and replaced it with something so much better. The banter sets them both just a little more at ease, he thinks, and he's glad for it.

"When you...that year after you left? Merlin, Harry, you were all we talked about. I think you were all we thought about, even when we didn't know we were thinking about you. Then when we realised we weren't going to find you," Draco's voice drops off and he tries to look away, but this time it's Harry's hand on his own cheek that brings intense green eyes back into focus. "After we went home, I suppose I just _kept_ thinking about you."

Now Harry is smiling and Draco is nervous, and he almost laughs at the absurdity of the whole thing, but he doesn't have the chance, because Harry pulls him into another _thank you_ kiss, and all the nervousness drops away. Long moments later they separate, faces flushed and breaths ragged, and Draco settles back into Harry's shoulder for just a little longer.

"Thank you," he whispers softly, just in case he didn't say it enough with his kisses, and because he thinks in this instance maybe it needs saying. He feels Harry's arm slide up his back to grip his shoulder, pulling him closer.

"You're welcome," is murmured into his hair before they lapse back into another silence, this one punctuated by caresses and whispered encouragements and stroking hands and whimpers into needy mouths until they tip together over the edge in a shared series of shudders and cries.

Finally it becomes clear from the shadows moving about outside Harry's tent that there's no escaping the day, and they reluctantly dress and pull on socks and shoes, stopping occasionally to steal kisses that sometimes impede their progress just a little. And Draco doesn't mind, because he's realising this is the last time he'll spend a morning in Harry's tent, just the two of them in the bright glow of the sun against yellow fabric, and he wants to make it last and last.

When at last they emerge from the tent, the first thing Draco sees is that Ron and Hermione are both seated in the same place they had their supper and are watching them both smugly. He arches an eyebrow at the two of them as Harry murmurs a good morning on his way to the coffee pot. When he comes back to hand Draco the now-familiar steaming mug, Hermione giggles and even Ron can't hold back a smile. Draco rolls his eyes and looks at Harry, who looks equally amused, if not a little more cautious.

"So pleased to see you two can act like adults," Draco says wryly, inhaling the steam from his cup before taking his first sip. Harry is watching him, not for the first morning, and Draco turns his raised eyebrow on him as he lowers the cup. "See something you like, Harry?"

He can't help himself, and he knows he's feeding Hermione and Ron and their childish giggling by openly _flirting_, but after everything that's happened, it feels good to do something _normal_ with Harry. Harry grins.

"What if I do?" He says lightly, holding Draco's eyes. "I just like to see if that coffee is the best part of your day or not. Gives me something to work for later."

Ron splutters and Hermione's giggles turn into peals of laughter that end in a rather undignified coughing fit, but Draco barely notices, because once again, Harry's surprised him. He doesn't know _why_ he should be surprised that Harry would answer flirtation with flirtation, wasn't he just thinking that challenge is part of who they are, who they've always been? Still, he can't stop the smile that creeps onto his face, and Harry returns it, sipping his own coffee casually.

When his friends finally manage to control themselves and go to gather their things, Draco looks at Harry with a smirk.

"I told you yesterday, Harry, your coffee's good, but it'll have to be a sight better to be the best part of my morning today as well. But I suspect you know that already."

Harry smiles and nods confidently as he stands to take Draco's coffee cup and plant a sloppy, coffee-flavored kiss on Draco's lips.

"I know," he says, "but I like to hear you say it all the same."

Draco snorts, but he can't muster any derision. Because if he's honest, he likes to hear himself say it as well, and he likes hearing Harry ask.

The walk from Milennium Camp is steep and humid and a little muddy, and unlike their walk up the mountain, there are actually _steps_ built into the hillsides. Harry tells them this is because also unlike the walk up, this is the only way down, and the trail wouldn't survive the traffic it sees without re-enforcement. All Draco knows is that his legs will probably not survive the trip. His thighs are screaming and he's nearly turned both ankles several times. He's sweaty and overheated, his legs hurt, and the contentment he felt in Harry's tent this morning has started to crumble away as they get nearer to the gate that will signify the end of the climb.

There will be more paperwork, Harry says, and another _actual_ gate, and then they'll pile back into the rickety car and ride back to Moshi, and Draco is realising he wants none of it. He wants the skull-splitting headache and the bitter summit cold and the barren landscapes back, because they are all a part of Harry's mountain, and as long as he's on that mountain, he's with Harry, and none of the rest of the things that seemed so miserable even matter.

As it is, his headache is gone, the landscape is beautiful and green and lush, and though it's warmer than Draco would prefer, on any other day, he'd take the heat over the frigid wind any day. Any day except this one.

Draco's mood descends with their progress, and he barely responds to questions or conversation from Ron or Hermione. Harry is also uncharacteristically quiet, though Draco catches him following Draco's eyes with his own when he stops on the trail. Draco is so caught up in brooding and sulking and generally feeling sorry for himself that he doesn't even realise he's reached the gate until he's almost right under it, but when he does see it, he stops dead in his tracks, refusing to take another step.

He's staring up at the innocuous wooden pillars and the hut behind them and he thinks he might actually be shaking his head, although he's not sure. All he knows is that once he steps through that gate, he's stepping into a world of uncertainty and questions he won't have a choice but to ask, and more than likely, he's stepping into a world that once again won't have Harry Potter in it.

They're not leaving Africa just yet, Harry's very detailed pamphlets advised against leaving before taking a few days to rest, suggesting safaris on the savannah, so they'll still be on the continent for several more days. But they won't be here, and because he's been too much of a coward to ask, he doesn't know where Harry will be at all.

Draco can feel Harry's eyes on him as he glares at the gate, but he doesn't notice as Harry closes the distance between them to stand at Draco's side and reaches up a hand to run down Draco's bared forearm.

"It's just a gate, Draco," he says quietly. "Nothing more, just a gate out of the park."

Draco blinks at him, wondering if he realises that Draco has been applying so much more meaning to the bloody thing and guessing he probably does, because Harry seems to have a special knack for knowing exactly what's happening in Draco's head.

"I'm not ready..." Draco can't finish the sentence, but he feels Harry's hand squeeze his arm tighter, feels Harry step closer so that their shoulders are pressed together, and he thinks Harry knows what he can't say.

"I talked to Ron and Hermione on the way down," Harry says a little shyly, and Draco looks at him. "I don't have any new clients coming in for a couple of days. I thought maybe I'd tag along on your safari, if that'd be alright? I don't want to intrude on the rest of your holiday,but...well, I'm not ready either."

Draco is so relieved he sags visibly. A few more days. Merlin, he'd settle for a few more hours, anything, just enough time to figure all this out, so _days_ almost feel like a gift. He nods at Harry, not trusting himself to speak quite yet, and Harry grins and he grins back and maybe they'll figure this out yet. At least it isn't over today, he thinks to himself, and he turns to pass under the gate that really is just a gate with Harry at his heels.

They stand together outside the single-story structure, which Harry says is tradition, waiting in line with everyone else who's come down with them until finally they squeeze through a doorway and sign a book in a small office guarded by a particularly stern looking Tanzanian man. Draco isn't certain he sees the point in this, but Harry says it's what is done, and so they've done it. Record-keeping, he says, and besides, it isn't as though there really are that many people in the world who have stood on Kilimanjaro's summit, so why _not_ sign the thing? And he's right, but not for the reasons he or anyone else thinks.

Not that many people _have _stood next to that sign, Draco knows that, but _no one_ has sat next to it at moonrise with Harry Potter. And no one has learned in the span of a single kiss by the light of the same moon that his lifelong definition of magic has been completely wrong. No one except him. Those are the thoughts rushing through his head as he scrawls his name below Ron's and Hermione's and even Harry's, and he's positive he's the only person in any world thinking them.

When they've finished, they walk back out into the hot, humid air and put their belongings into the same rickety Land Rover that brought them to the Londerossi Gate a week ago, and Draco is certain he isn't the only one smiling at the difference a week has made. The inside of the car is filled with chatter almost all the way back to Moshi. Ron is reliving what seems like every step for Deo, who, to his credit, actually looks interested. Hermione is switching between adding in bits that she feels Ron has left out and asking Harry about everything they pass on the way down, from the villages (Chagga, he says, one of the largest native peoples to Tanzania and Charles' ancestry), to the distance they walked over the mountain (90 kilometres, which makes Draco squeak a little, and understand why his feet are throbbing and more than a little blistered), to what they can expect to see on their safari trip (everything, and no, Hermione, he is not exaggerating).

Draco is quiet, basking a little in the tension-free conversation. He would not have thought this possible seven days ago, and he can't help but think that the perfect turn of events that led them to this moment was just more of Harry's magic-that-isn't magic. He thinks back to Harry's pleading voice in his office and grins.

_I need to make this right, and I can do that up there, Malfoy..._

Draco doesn't know if Harry knew all along that his mountain would help him make it right, or if it was just his stupid Gryffindor courage, but as he looks fondly at Harry sitting next to him, he thinks maybe it's more of the former than anything else.

When Deo brings the car to a stop, Draco realises they are back at the hotel they slept in the first night they arrived in Moshi. He doesn't know why he's surprised; he knew this was their return destination, but he supposes he thought they'd go back to Harry's office first. He can't even explain that crazy thought, other than to chalk it up to not being ready to say goodbye to Harry yet, not even for the night. He toys with the idea of asking the man to stay, but even that seems unfair somehow. Harry has a home here, a home he hasn't seen in more than a week, and he'd probably like to get back to it for a night before setting out again.

He sighs and begins to climb out of the back of the Land Rover behind his friends when a familiar and warm hand clamps around the wrist he plants on the seat in front of him. He stops and turns back to Harry, whose face once again looks more than a little uncertain.

"I have to go back to the office," he says, and Draco nods, wondering what he's getting at. Of course he does, he's just brought clients down, and certainly all that gesturing and waving and paperwork from the mountain mean something in the grand scheme of administration. "I thought perhaps...well, if you don't mind coming to the office first..."

Draco quirks an eyebrow at Harry. He thinks he sees some of the same insecurities in those green eyes that he's been harbouring all week, and for once he supposes he can throw Harry a lifeline, even if he does have to tease a little in the process.

"Honestly, Harry, just because it isn't dark or freezing, and just because there's no fire, it doesn't mean I'm any different. It's still _me_, you know. Just _ask_, whatever it is."

Harry looks at him, uncertainty still clear in his face and then exhales his words all in one long breath.

"I thought instead of staying here you might want to come home with me," he rushes, face turning redder with every word.

Draco grins in a decidedly un-Malfoy-like fashion, his face lighting up before he can stop himself at Harry's invitation. Of course Harry doesn't see it, because he's suddenly so bloody interested in a loose thread in the fabric of his seat that Draco has to reach out and take hold of the hand that's picking at the snag before he looks up apprehensively.

Without a word, Draco grasps Harry's chin between his thumb and forefinger and leans in to kiss the doubt away from Harry's face. He pours every _yes_ and _thank you_ and _I never want to leave you _ and _please come home_ into the kiss until they are both panting and flushed, and Draco has to clear his throat and coax his mind somewhere very unpleasant before he can even consider getting out of the car to speak with his friends.

After half-heartedly admonishing Ron and Hermione for their relentless teasing when he tells them he won't be needing his room at the hotel, he and Harry join them for an early supper. Draco eats so much he thinks its possible he might not be able to stand up when they're finished, but gods, real food from a real kitchen just tastes so bloody _good_. When at last they've all eaten far more than their fill, he and Harry climb back into the Land Rover, this time with Harry at the wheel, to make their way back to the Wanderlust office.

They're mostly quiet as they meander through the narrow streets of Moshi, the silence only broken by Harry's occasional mention of a particular shop or landmark or road that leads somewhere of note. Draco supposes that since it's Harry's _job_ to point things out to people, he probably does it all the time, whether he's working or not, and he smiles. It isn't as though he minds. He's drawn to Harry's enthusiasm for this place.

They arrive at the small office and Draco helps Harry store the tents and other supplies in a large cupboard near the entrance to the room he'd stood in when they arrived a week ago. When they finish, Harry pushes open the wooden door at the back of the room and looks back at Draco.

"I just need to file the paperwork on the climb before we go," he says, holding the door open until Draco slips in to the inner office in front of him. "Sit if you like, but I won't be long."

Draco is tempted to do just as Harry suggests; his feet are tired and tender from two days of downclimb blisters. But he looks around the dimly lit but cosy office and his eyes are drawn to the rows of photographs that line the far wall, and he limps over to gaze at them instead. Some are of mountains, some of people on mountains. He moves from one to the next, rolling unfamiliar names around in his head as he looks at craggy peaks and snow-covered boulders. _Aconcagua. Vinson. Elbrus. Rainier._

Harry is in several of the photographs as well. Some are older, showing Harry the way Draco remembers last seeing him, where others are clearly more recent. He lingers for a while on one of Harry alone, smiling wistfully at whoever took the picture before turning to gaze out over a landscape that is familiar to Draco, since he's stood in that same spot twice in the last few days. Photo Harry stares out over the savannah with intensity, and Draco is transported back there with him for just a moment, a smile crossing his lips.

The smile fades away though as he reaches the next picture, this one depicting Harry several years ago. Harry is smiling and laughing at something a fair-haired, sunburned young man with sparkling blue eyes has just said, and Draco's stomach lurches. The other man in the photo has eyes for nothing around him but Harry, despite the crystal clear sky and stunning view that's visible behind the two men in the picture. This is _him_, Draco knows it in a second.

Draco is mesmerized and envious and heartbroken for photo Harry, who looks so bloody relaxed, and he can't drag his eyes away from the happy scene that keeps playing out in front of him. He doesn't even notice that Harry has moved from his desk, paperwork finished or forgotten, and is standing at his shoulder until he hears the soft voice in his ear.

"His name was Miles," Harry says, and Draco jumps as he realises how close Harry is. Harry puts a hand up and brushes the corner of the picture. "This was during the first rainy season after we came down here and started Wanderlust. Once the climbing was done, we closed up shop and went back to the States. This is on top of a peak in Washington."

Harry drops his hand and sighs, and Draco looks again at the easy teasing and obvious affection between the two men in the photo, and he feels that bloody insecurity rising in his head. Harry and his...and _Miles_ shared a whole life here, and Draco curses himself for thinking that seven years of youthful enmity and a week on a mountain can measure up to that. He's about to say so when he feels strong hands gripping his shoulders and turning him away from the picture. Harry's eyes burn with intensity as he stares at Draco.

"I can see what's going on in your head, and I'm begging you Draco, please, don't go down that path," Harry says firmly. "You're not him. I know that. I told you on the mountain and I'll tell you again now, but you have to listen to me when I say it. I don't want you to be him. He's gone. He's been gone a long time."

Harry takes a deep breath before going on.

"I miss him, I always will. Just like I miss my mum and dad, and just like I miss Sirius and Dumbledore and everyone else in my life who's died. But he isn't here, Draco, and you are. And I'm _glad_ you are. Alright?"

Draco nods, his eyes once again drawn to the handsome, happy couple in the picture. "I'm sorry, Harry." He whispers the words, not knowing if he's sorry for Harry's loss or his own insecurity or for doubting Harry's ability to move on, but it doesn't matter.

Harry turns him so they're facing one another and presses a soft kiss to Draco's lips and smiles. "Home, then?" He asks, and Draco nods again, a little more certain this time, and before he knows what's happened, Harry's put both arms around his waist and he feels the familiarly disconcerting twist of Apparition as the office dissolves away before his eyes.


	12. Chapter Eleven

_As always, my thanks to all of you for reading and commenting, and to the usual suspects, who still know who they are. Several of you have asked how much we have left to go – there are three more chapters after this one. They're finished as well and will continue to post on Tuesdays._

_Some of the anecdotal details contained in this story are mine, though if you take the path to the top of Africa, your mileage may vary. All fictional elements referred to herein belong to their respective owners. Harry Potter is Rowling's. All That Glitters and the rest of Middle Earth are Tolkien's No copyright infringement intended.

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Draco isn't sure what he expected, but as he looks around the open, airy room and disentangles himself somewhat reluctantly from Harry's arms, he's fairly certain it wasn't this. They're in the center of a large living room with a exposed beams on the vaulted ceiling. Books line one whole wall, some wizarding, some Muggle, Draco notices, and a cosy fireplace takes up a good bit of another. But it's the wall that really isn't a wall at all, lined entirely by panels of screen with shutters pushed away at the ends that draws his eye. He's looking out at row upon row of plants he vaguely recognises, lush and green and perfect in the evening sunlight, and framed in the background by Harry's mountain looming on the horizon, and the sight takes his breath away.

"This is _yours_?" He asks before he can stop himself. He doesn't know why he should be surprised if it is; he knows Harry has more money than he probably knows what to do with, and clearly he doesn't spend it on much. Still, this place hardly seems real, it's so tranquil and beautiful. Then again, he reminds himself, so was the top of the mountain. It seems fitting that Harry would surround himself with the same surreal solitude away from the summit that he loves so much when he's up there.

Harry chuckles.

"No, the plantation isn't mine. It belongs to a benefactor of Wanderlust, actually. He was a client on one of our South America climbs before we came here. After Miles..." Harry drifts off for a second, but doesn't drop Draco's hand, which he hasn't let go of since they appeared in his living room, so Draco douses the spark of nerves at the mention of Harry's partner. "After the avalanche, I didn't want to stay in our apartment anymore. It was nearer the office, but it was sort of like Grimmauld Place for me. Full of memories of people I'd never see again."

Draco squeezes his hand and nods. He feels that way about Malfoy Manor sometimes. His mother is a shell of the woman she'd been his whole life, and his father is gone, likely never to return from Azkaban, but the ghosts he sees in the Manor are the ghosts of his past. The ghosts of parents who weren't seated at a table full of Death Eaters, but instead who indulged every whim of the little boy who worshipped them both and who knew nothing of the cruelties he would someday play a part in.

"He came to see me after Miles' funeral when I was thinking of shutting Wanderlust down and encouraged me to stay and offered me use of this place. His family moved back to Britain, but he wanted to keep the plantation. I look after it for them and I had all my own things, so they let me stay here."

Draco nods again appreciatively while still staring at the rows of plants before him.

"Coffee," he says slowly, realisation dawning, and he looks at Harry. "You live on a _coffee plantation_?"

The irony is not lost on Draco as he thinks back on morning after morning of perfectly-brewed, perfectly-prepared coffee in camp. Harry laughs openly now, a deep, genuine, beautiful sound that warms Draco from the inside out.

"Yeah. I haven't the first idea what's involved here, there's crew that works the fields. Nice blokes, the lot of them. There's a roaster in that building just there," Harry points at a wooden structure in the distance, "and they bring me coffee for my trips."

Draco laughs. No wonder it had tasted so bloody good.

They stand there for a few moments, watching the sun creep toward the horizon and turning everything in sight a glowing shade of golden-orange.

"I think I could use a drink," Harry says quietly after a while. "Care to join me?"

Something about the softness in Harry's voice coupled with the sense of being completely _alone_ in this place makes Draco pick up on the slight catch of nervousness when Harry speaks. And he realises he's just a little nervous as well. They're not in that cosy little tent anymore, surrounded by the tents of others and the sounds of the mountain. It's just the two of them out here, and it's beautiful and wonderful and terrifying.

Draco nods his assent and Harry wanders off into another room. Draco moves about the living room, smiling at the traces of _Harry_ he sees everywhere in it, even if this isn't really Harry's house. He stops longest at a worn leather armchair near the screens. He runs his fingers over the back, imagining Harry sitting there alone in the light of the lamp on the table next to the chair. There is a creased, well-read book on the table as well, and Draco smiles when he realises it's the very book that contains Harry's poem.

_Not all those who wander are lost_. As he looks around the home Harry has made for himself in the shadow of the mountain he loves, Draco can't help but think the poem got it just right.

Harry reappears then, carrying two glasses of amber liquid and gestures to the porch. "It's as good a place as any to watch the sun go down, and the insects aren't too bad tonight."

Draco takes one of the glasses with a murmured _thank you_ and follows Harry out onto the expansive porch. It's covered and seems to wrap all the way around the house, at least from what Draco can see. It's carved and built from the same wood in the exposed beams from inside, and Draco absently thinks the imperfection in the crooked railing and mismatched planks might be the most comfortable thing he's ever seen. He drops into another worn chair, this one carved of wood but cushioned comfortably, still staring out into the distance at the mountain he'd stood atop not two days gone. It's so large and imposing, and he's not sure if he felt smaller standing on its summit or staring up at it from the plains in its shadow.

He's startled from his musings by the harsh sound of another chair being dragged from a few metres away, and he turns to watch Harry pushing the piece of furniture right up next to him until the arms of both chairs are touching. He smiles, then grins as he realises how much it puts him in mind of their sleeping bags zipped together in Harry's tent.

"What's so funny?" Harry asks as he drops into his own chair, lips curving into a smile at Draco's obvious delight.

"I was just noticing how you seem to have a real knack for making things that are meant to be for one person fit together perfectly to suit two," Draco's tone is light, but as he rests his left arm deliberately in the center of the armrests of the two chairs and Harry smiles and slides his own hand down Draco's arm to press their palms and twine their fingers together, he thinks Harry understands the meaning behind his words.

They're silent for a long time, watching the sun dip below the horizon in a brilliant display of fiery oranges and reds. Harry's thumb skates over his in a rhythmic, soothing motion, and Draco wishes he could just stay here forever, watching sunsets on a porch in Africa with Harry, because aside from the man to his left, the view in front of him is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

Harry's voice shakes him from his reverie.

"I can't leave, Draco," he says, voice low and shaky, his eyes never leaving the horizon as he stares at his mountain.

"I know," Draco says, also pinning his eyes back to the hulking mountain that drew Harry here and holds him in its grasp. Because he does know. He's known all along, he just hasn't wanted to admit it. "I can't stay, Harry."

If Harry's voice was low before, Draco nearly has to strain to hear him now.

"I know."

Even as his chest tightens painfully and that bloody _lump_ rises in his throat again, Draco is oddly grateful for the quiet admissions. There are no shouts or curses or accusations, no fingers pointed in blame or cruel words uttered out of spite. For all the pain he feels, all the sadness, he still can feel a spark of hope at their careful handling of the topic and of each other. That kind of consideration, at least in Draco's experience, can take a long time to cultivate with someone, and yet it's as natural with Harry as breathing.

There's something else too, something he doesn't expect to accompany the words he's been so afraid to utter. He looks down at his hand entwined with Harry's, focusing as hard as he can on the sensation of Harry's fingers clenching his, on Harry's palm against his own suddenly-sweaty one, because in the face of pain in his chest the likes of which he's never felt in his life, the feel of Harry's touch is instantly soothing.

_Skin_. Thoughts of the night on the summit, only two days gone and yet a world away, burn hot in Draco's mind and something about the graze of thumbs and twining of fingers and press of palms fills Draco with want or need or just the wish for more contact, because if the brush of a hand can dull the ache in his chest, then the full press of bodies will do so much more.

He stands, nearly knocking the almost-empty glass of Firewhiskey from its perch on his other armrest and pulls a perplexed-looking Harry to his feet and into a rough, needy kiss that is returned almost instantly. Draco drops Harry's hand and reaches up to slide his fingers over Harry's jaw and cheeks and into that hopeless mess of hair, pulling him closer into the mingling of tongues and lips and hot, panting, needy breaths.

He feels Harry's hands slide around his waist, pulling him roughly closer, and he melts into Harry's body, marveling in his lust-fogged mind at how perfect the angles of their bodies fit together, even standing fully-clothed on Harry's porch. He feels Harry's cock hardening against his own as they press together, hips rolling minutely in a desperate attempt at _more please now want you_.

Draco pulls his lips from Harry's long enough to gasp, "Bedroom?" When Harry points towards a hallway at the far end of the living room, Draco takes hold of Harry's hand firmly and stalks that way, his steps long and quick and single-minded as he pulls Harry along until they stumble into another light, airy room, this one inhabited solely by a large, pillow-covered bed and a night table holding another stack of books.

He turns back to Harry and reaches down to grasp at the hem of the other man's shirt, pulling it over his head in a quick motion, then stripping his own off just as quickly before pressing their torsos together and pressing his lips back against Harry's. He groans at the prickles of warmth he feels where their chests brush together, and Harry grunts and snakes arms around his back to pull him closer.

"Skin," Harry whispers against his mouth, and Draco smiles into the kiss at Harry's understanding. They have so much to talk about, so much to worry through, but right now he - _they _- need _this._ They need contact and touches and kisses and caresses that say everything they can't find words for, and they need it _now._

At the same time Draco's fingers fumble at the buttons on Harry's trousers, he feels Harry's fingers at his own waist, neither of them breaking their kisses to shove trousers and pants to the floor and nearly tripping in their efforts to kick their feet free. They fall onto soft blankets and a mountain of pillows that Draco would find almost laughable if he wasn't so focused on the task at hand. Leave it to the Boy Who Lived to need more bedding than a Malfoy to sleep properly.

Draco is slighter of frame than Harry, though taller, and he knows he's at a disadvantage in strength, but he makes up for it in single-mindedness, rolling Harry onto his back and looking down into lustful, hazy green eyes.

"Draco," Harry whispers, and is about to speak again when Draco silences him with a kiss. There will be time for words later, all the words they have to say and some they don't, but this isn't that time.

He runs reverent fingers over every inch of skin he can reach, brushing over Harry's sharp collarbones and gently pinching at one peaked, dusky nipple while nipping at the other with his teeth. Harry moans wordlessly. This is what he wants, what he needs. On the mountain, _Harry's_ mountain, he took what Harry gave, and though he was grateful to the point of breaking, he didn't give back the way he wanted to, needed to. He needs to _show_ Harry just how much the last few days have changed him for good.

He delights in the raggedness of Harry's breathing, his chest rising and falling erratically beneath Draco's lips and fingers. The dim light of dusk still illuminating the room allows him to still see Harry's face, flushed against the white of the linens, and the burning gaze that meets his eyes when he looks up bores straight into his soul with such intensity he has to look away.

He lowers his lips back to Harry's chest, sliding kisses across skin and freckles and scars he can tell were caused by harmless wounds, each with its own story that Draco wants to learn and memorize and keep. He is reverent in his gestures, his kisses and touches soft and deliberate. He feels the muscles in Harry's abdomen ripple beneath his tongue, knowing when he's hit a sensitive place by the soft curses and whispers and moans he hears. He pays special attention to each of those places, sucking and nipping at skin stretched over the bottom of Harry's ribcage and again just inside each hip bone.

When Draco crouches between Harry's knees and hovers over his cock, blowing hot breath over the sensitive flesh, Harry whines. Any other day, Draco might prolong Harry's anticipation, taking pleasure in making Harry squirm with want, but just now all he can think about is finding ways to tell Harry all the things he can't find words to say just yet. He grasps Harry's cock in his fist and lowers his head to close his lips around it and Harry moans and lifts his hips, and Draco feels a hand slide gently over his hair and he hums at more _skin_ as fingers brush over his temples.

Harry is murmuring, his words unintelligible to Draco's ears, but the pleasure in his tone is unmistakable as Draco slides his tongue up and down Harry's cock, licking at the sensitive skin at the head and stroking it firmly in his fist. The harsh need he hears in Harry's cries and feels in the lift of his hips is the mirror of Draco's own desire, and he shifts to take himself in his free hand, moaning against Harry at the relief he feels as he strokes his own cock.

"Draco," Harry gasps, sliding a sweaty hand down down from Draco's hair to wrap over the one Draco has around Harry's cock. "Merlin, Draco, I want... _Please_."

Draco doesn't know what Harry wants, not exactly, but he knows what he wanted himself the night before as he lay beneath Harry, and he thinks just maybe that's exactly what Harry is asking him for now. He slides one last lick up Harry's cock before kissing his way back up Harry's torso, nipping and sucking at the salty, warm skin, releasing both their cocks to slide his palms over the hot skin of Harry's stomach and chest. He feels Harry reaching for the night table next to the bed and can't help but chuckle at the sound of the pile of books he'd noticed when they came in crashing to the floor.

He looks down into Harry's glazed eyes as he hovers back over the handsome, sun-darkened face, memorising every flare of dark pupils against green irises. As he brings his lips back to Harry's hungrily, he feels Harry press a small glass bottle into his hand from where he'd been reaching on the night table at his side.

"Please, Draco," Harry whispers against Draco's mouth, and he is so beautiful,and every touch of fingers and tongues and lips feels like so much more than Draco has ever felt before that he doesn't think he could ever deny Harry anything, even if he wanted to.

Which, in this instance, he decidedly does not.

Reluctantly dragging his mouth away from Harry's, only spurred by the delicious anticipation of what's to come, Draco sits back on his heels, staring down at Harry as he slowly, deliberately, almost teasingly slides his feet up to press into the mattress on either side of Draco's knees. Harry is stunning, flushed and panting and gazing up at Draco with a mixture of pleading and trust and what Draco thinks is a little bit of apprehension. Something scratches at the back of his mind, and even as he twists the stopper off the bottle, he can't help himself.

"Harry," he whispers softly, "how long has it been since...well. How long?"

Harry looks at him for a long moment, his silence telling Draco what he needs to know, but he says the words anyway. "A long time. Not since..."

Draco nods and sets the stopper aside and slides a hand over Harry's bent knee and down over his thigh before leaning down to kiss him softly, first brushing his lips over Harry's, then across tanned cheeks and fluttering eyelids. As he has so many times already in just a few short days, he wills every kiss to say _thank you_ and _I want you_, and he knows Harry understands as he feels sighs accompany every kiss and caress.

At last, he sits back up and pours some of the slick oil from the bottle over his fingers, never dropping Harry's gaze. Stoppering the bottle and setting it aside, he trails one hand down Harry's chest, palm flat, feeling every ripple of muscle and ridge of bone as he slides the other carefully between Harry's legs and over the puckering skin at his entrance. Harry moans as Draco circles his fingers gently, applying just the slightest bit of pressure and increasing it with every whimper and groan from Harry until he carefully slides a finger inside. Harry whines softly for _gods, Draco, more_, but doesn't drop his gaze from Draco's, and his breathing increases. Draco moves his other hand down to grip Harry's cock again, and Harry presses into his hand and then against his finger, and Draco works in a second, mesmerized at the sight of Harry writhing and crying out because of _him_.

He twists and scissors his fingers gently, adding a third when he knows Harry is ready. The desire to make this all about Harry's pleasure so great in him that his awareness of his own straining erection ebbs and flows against his concentration on the need to make Harry _feel_.

"Need _you_, Draco,fuck, please!" Draco is once again moved to action by the desperation in Harry's voice and he pauses to slide oil over his own cock, the sharp rush of desire slamming back to him the second he touches himself and he moans.

He positions himself carefully against Harry's entrance, pinning Harry with his eyes and watching every shift in his expression, every bite of his lip as he slides slowly inside. It's Draco's turn to whine at the sensation, the heat and clenching tightness is so much he gasps against the urge to come right then. Harry is gasping too, and Draco freezes, concern for Harry's comfort getting the best of him until Harry rolls his hips ever so slightly, sliding Draco's cock just a bit farther inside in an unspoken request for more that Draco grants.

"Merlin, Harry," he pants as he slowly moves his hips in a careful thrust. "Is this...are you...?"

Harry nods fervently, lifting his own hips again to meet Draco's and letting a small, beautiful smile play across his lips as he reaches up to grasp Draco's hand where it's gripping his knee, twining their fingers together. It's the smile that nearly undoes Draco and his gasps begin to sound dangerously like sobs as he moves in Harry. Their breathing and the sounds of skin against skin with each thrust are the only ones in the room for a long time, only broken occasionally by strings of curses and endearments and _more yes please oh gods right there don't stop_.

Draco stares down at Harry, never wanting to let go of the image beneath him of _just Harry_ lying there, moving with him and calling out his name as Draco strokes Harry's cock and thrusts inside him. Despite his wish to cling to the piercing eye contact, to stare down at the beautiful smile on Harry's face, Draco is overwhelmed by the need to _taste_. Their kisses are as erratic as their breathing as he presses their lips together, and the feeling of Harry's tongue tangled with his sends a jolt to Draco's cock that he knows to mean he's _so close gods Harry please_.

He doesn't know if he's said it aloud or not, but when Harry puts his head back, breaking their kiss and exposing delicious-looking skin on his neck and rasps, "Fuck Draco, yes!" his muscles begin to coil in anticipation with every thrust. Draco dips his head to Harry's neck, kissing and sucking until Harry's no-longer quiet encouragements drive him over the edge and he shudders and pushes jerkily as he comes, crying out. His vision blurs but the need to make Harry come with him pushes him on, and he continues to stroke Harry's cock even as he bites down on the soft skin between Harry's neck and shoulder and whimpers with the waves of ecstasy washing over him.

Harry trembles, pressing his palms into Draco's back and dragging ragged fingernails down either side of his spine and Draco arches into the sensation in spite of the haze that's started to settle over him. He knows Harry is close too, knows it won't be long and he _needs_ to give this to Harry, needs to share this moment with him as he's racked with wave after wave of pleasure that goes on so long it almost hurts.

Draco doesn't know if it's the tightening of his fist around Harry or the bite of his teeth or the whimpers he can't stop that push Harry to the brink, but it's not long before he feels hips arching into his as Harry strains against his hand and he mutters a string of gibberish that Draco can't understand but doesn't need to. He swipes his tongue over the faint outline of teeth marks he's left on Harry's neck, running soothing kisses over the exposed flesh as Harry arches and cries out and comes over his hand.

When, after several minutes of panting and shuddering and soft kisses and curses, Draco feels Harry's muscles slacken beneath him and his breathing start to return to a rate that might be akin to normal, he slides free and rolls onto his side next to Harry, propping himself up on a shaky elbow despite his body's pleas to melt into the sheets and sleep. He can sleep later, once Harry is sleeping, but he's determined not to waste a single waking minute of this night.

Harry turns his head slowly to regard him, and Draco is quietly pleased at the look of utter contentment on the face looking up into his. He leans down to kiss Harry softly, for once not trying to say anything with the gesture, just giving in to the sweetness of the moment. He can't suppress the slightest chuckle at what they must look like, sweaty and sticky and flushed, hair disheveled, staring at one another as if there was nothing else on earth worth looking at. Harry seems to have that effect on him, he thinks, and the small smile that found its way onto his face as he looks down into Harry's bright eyes spreads.

"Stop looking at me like I've sprouted green hair, you git," Harry says, and Draco only grins bigger. "Seriously, what is so bloody amusing?" His face is mock-serious, but Draco can hear amusement winnowing its way into his voice, and he reaches a hand up to brush fingers across Draco's smiling lips and Draco knows he's only pretending to be put out.

Draco nips at Harry's fingers as they slide over his mouth on their way to his jaw, and when he feels Harry's palm come up to press there, he turns his head to kiss it, repeating Harry's oft-used gesture. Harry smiles.

"I was just thinking," Draco says lazily, his voice still a bit shaky and rough, "I don't think I can tease Ron and Hermione about forgetting everyone else exists anymore. Everywhere I go with you, I feel like the rest of the world sort of...falls away."

His face burns a little with the admission; he really hadn't intended to say it quite like that, not so openly, but something about the trust Harry offered him moments before and the earnestness in his eyes now and the smile that's still lingering on his lips as he absently curls fingers against the angles of Draco's jaw won't let him hold back.

"I thought it was just being up _there_," he flicks his eyes toward a window in Harry's room that also looks out on the mountain. "Especially at night, when everyone else was sleeping and it was just us, but I think it isn't that at all, Harry. I think it's _you_, not the mountain. Or maybe it's you _on_ the mountain, or it was...gods I sound like a complete babbling sap don't I, never mind."

Draco bites his tongue and looks away from Harry's intense stare, the flush on his face deepening to a burn he can feel with every beat of his heart. He's never talked like that in his whole life, never said even a fraction of the words that just tumbled out of his mouth to anyone before. But Harry's face relaxes into a beautiful smile and he shifts his head until he's pinned Draco with his eyes again, following Draco's every attempt to look away until Draco gives up and stares back shyly.

"Maybe it's a bit of both," Harry whispers and lifts his lips to Draco's before going on. "I think it took the mountain to bring us together maybe, but I don't think we've lost anything by not being up there any longer, do you?"

He pulls Draco down for another kiss, this one a little deeper, a little longer, a little more urgent. There is so much to say, Draco thinks, so many years of bitterness and anger and malicious words and then so many more of absence and searching to make up for, but they seem to be able to put so much _more_ into each kiss that it's hard to pull away from Harry's lips.

"No," he breathes, answering Harry's question. "No, I guess we didn't at that."

"I think," Harry says after a few moments, "as much as I'd like to stay right here until the sun comes up, we might benefit from a proper shower, hm?"

Draco nearly groans at the thought. No amount of cleaning spells and hastily scrubbing at faces and hands in the frigid air of the mountain, nor even of hair-washing and strong fingers on his scalp can, at this very moment, hold a candle to the idea of unending streams of hot water and clouds of steam and soapy suds. Harry laughs at the eager look Draco knows has crossed his face and kisses him again and pulls Draco up with him to stumble on sluggish legs into the bathroom and the shower.

He doesn't know how long it is before they emerge, skin pink from heat and scrubbing and maybe from a few other activities that aren't strictly necessary for a proper shower, but that Draco thinks he could add to his morning routine without much argument. They tumble into bed, a warm tangle of limbs and caressing fingers and soft lips and tongues. Draco closes his eyes and stretches languorously against the cool sheets before curling an arm around Harry's shoulders when he feels damp hair and fluttering eyelashes against his chest.

"Don't want to sleep yet," Harry mumbles even as Draco can feel his breathing getting deep and slow.

"Hmm," is all Draco can manage back, unable even to open his eyes, no matter how hard he fights his own urge to stay awake.

The last thing he thinks he hears as he begins to drift off, uncertain if it's just something he _wants_ Harry to say or if he's actually said it, and equally unsure if Harry's awake or already talking in his sleep, is a softly sighed, "_Stay_."

~~~***~~~***~~~  
Much in the same way he has been the last two mornings, Draco is surprised when he wakes to see the full light of morning streaming into Harry's bedroom. He doesn't have trouble _sleeping_, and hasn't really since he found a place for himself after the war with Ron and Hermione, effectively saving him from himself and the dangerous thoughts that had already started taking root in his head in the trial- and funeral-filled months just after the Dark Lord was killed. But he hasn't always slept _well_, and every night he sleeps without the voices and screams of the past is a gift.

Leave it to the Boy Who Lived to be the key to a good night's sleep for Draco Malfoy.

Then again, as he listens to Harry snore softly, his head burrowed into Draco's chest, maybe this is just a little more of the magic-that-isn't-magic that followed them down the mountain and into Harry's home. He smiles and softly puts his lips to Harry's forehead, feeling him begin to stir in that place between being awake and asleep. When Draco feels the arm draped over his chest tighten, fingers pressing into his ribs, he murmurs a whispered good morning, humming happily as Harry responds with a soft kiss to his collarbone.

They lie there for a while, looking out the window at the sunlit glaciers on Harry's mountain and softly talking about nothing and everything in such a familiar way that Draco has to remind himself they've only woken up together three times in their whole lives. Finally Harry grows quiet, and Draco feels the sinuous muscles in Harry's shoulders and down his spine tense just slightly. He waits quietly, knowing there's something Harry wants to say but not wanting to rush his words.

"You heard me last night, didn't you?" He says finally, his voice so small Draco thinks he sounds a little like a child afraid he's about to get caught for some misbehaviour.

"Yes," Draco says, the echo of Harry's _stay_ coursing through his brain. Gods how he wants to. He feels the slightest shudder against his chest before Harry speaks.

"I shouldn't have...I'm sorry, Draco," he says, and Draco's heart breaks, because he doesn't want Harry to be sorry. In fact, he wants Harry to want him to stay, no matter how selfish he knows that is.

He tightens his grip around Harry's shoulders and buries his face in his hair, still soft and smelling of the soapy clean scent from their shower the night before. He's about to tell Harry as much when the other man's next words make him freeze and hold his breath, and Draco's sure that his heart would stop as well if his conscious thought controlled that too.

"I woke up in the night," Harry says. "I do that a lot, although for once it wasn't from nightmares. I was dreaming about that poem, or something that reminded me of it, I don't really remember. I just know I woke up with it in my head, and I was lying _right here_ when I woke up," he presses his ear down against Draco's chest to emphasize his point, "and I realised I've never felt less lost in my whole life as I have since you walked into my office."

Draco's heart is pounding so hard he half expects to see Harry's head start to bounce off his chest, and he swallows hard against the dryness in his throat, but he will not speak. He's praying to anything he's ever held dear that Harry might be about to say something really important, something to quell the fear that's threatening to drown him about what will happen when this trip is all over.

"And I thought maybe it was seeing all of you, having a real reminder of what it's like to be near people who know me, who care about me, and that's part of it I suppose. I didn't realise how _much_ I missed Ron and Hermione until I saw them again, even with as angry as they were.

"I've made a home here, Draco. I have a _life_ here, my own life that's made up of things I love and things I'm proud of that don't have anything to do with being the Boy Who Lived or anyone's bloody saviour. But since I set eyes on you, since I showed you every secret that mountain has ever given me, all I know is that I feel the itch to _wander_ again for the first time in years."

He stops speaking for a moment and Draco thinks he might go mad waiting. Harry lifts himself up, pressing down on Draco's chest so their faces are mere inches apart and Draco feels like he might crumble beneath the weight of Harry's gaze.

"Only this time," Harry whispers, "I know exactly what I'm looking for and where I want to wander."

Draco thinks his eyes can't get any bigger, and he's using every scrap of self-restraint he's ever had not to cry or whimper or shake Harry and beg him to get on with it, but _gods_, he's nearly mad with hope.

"And it's to wherever you are."

Harry's words are so quiet that Draco wouldn't have heard them at all if they hadn't been uttered right against his lips, but they sound sweeter than the most beautiful symphony he's ever heard. He breathes out all at once with so much relief it sounds and feels more like a sob, and he smiles and winds his fingers into Harry's, pressing their foreheads together and nudging at Harry's nose with his own. He wants to kiss him, but he has so many questions that he contents himself with nuzzling playfully at Harry's face to coax a smile onto the handsome face over his own.

"Harry," he whispers when he trusts his voice not to break, "how-?"

"I don't know yet," Harry says, caressing Draco's jaw with his thumb and pulling his face back again to look into Draco's eyes. "I meant what I said yesterday too. I can't leave, not for good. I really do love my life here, and the business."

"And your mountain," Draco says, voice a little stronger now, a smile quirking his lips.

Harry snorts, presses a kiss to Draco's lips and pushes himself up to a sitting position. Draco follows suit, realising that in spite of how much he would like to keep having this conversation with Harry lying naked over top of him, they will very likely get more than a little distracted. And just this once Draco doesn't think he wants to miss a single moment of what Harry is saying. He sits up, drawing his knees up in the sheets and looking appreciatively as Harry leans across the bed to gather a blanket from its foot and draw it around his shoulders.

"That too," Harry says, "and what are you leering at?"

It's Draco's turn to snort and arch an eyebrow in an exaggeratedly suggestive manner that he knows makes him look ridiculous, but he _was _leering. Then again, if Harry could have seen himself, muscles flexing and stretching gracefully as he reached for the blanket, he thinks Harry might have leered as well. Harry laughs at him and shakes his head.

"Never mind. I probably don't want to know." He pulls a face at Draco before resuming his serious expression. "The thing is, Draco, the climbing season here isn't year-round, and as much as I love guiding here, I don't want to spend the rest of my life moving from season to season and continent to continent depending on weather and demand. Wanderlust is here, and _my_ mountain, as you so stubbornly continue to call it, is here, and those are the things that keep _me_ here.

"But I can run the business from anywhere, at least for bookings and the like, and come back just before the season. And I do actually have other guides that work for me occasionally, I just...well, I didn't want anyone else up there with you three."

Harry looks sheepish, but Draco only smiles. He knows that Harry was depending on the mountain to bring his friends around, even knowing as he did that they would encounter more than their share of obstacles along the way.

"I don't know if it'll work, honestly," Harry says, "or if you even _want_ it to work, I guess I didn't even think to ask, I just assumed..."

He trails off suddenly, a look of panic starting to creep across his face and Draco wants to kiss it away. As it is, he puts a hand out to brush his fingers down the creased lines of worry that are appearing on Harry's forehead.

"Harry," he says quietly, scooting closer so that their crossed knees are touching, "just because I said I couldn't stay doesn't mean I don't want to, and just because I said I knew you couldn't leave doesn't mean I don't want you to come with me. It's just that this is so different than anything that's ever happened to me before. Part of me feels like this is brand new and I have to be cautious with everything I do and say because that's what a person _does_ when something is new. But the part of me that's known you since we were children wants to beg you to come home with everything I have in me.

"The thing is though, you left because you needed to find something, and after spending a week with you up there, I knew you found it. I really have learned a thing or two from those Gryffindor friends of yours - _ours_ - and for once in my life I had to resist the urge to do the selfish thing, no matter how badly I wanted to. But Merlin, Harry, I _really_ wanted to."

Harry reaches out to take Draco's hand, picking it up from where it rests on Harry's knee and turns it over to reveal harsh black lines against pale white skin.

"I'd say you've had a good bit of practice resisting the selfish thing, Draco," he says quietly, lifting Draco's arm to his lips and running his tongue over the marked skin. "And sometimes it's alright to be selfish just the same."

Draco moans softly at the sensation. Of all the feelings he ever thought the Mark might bring out in him, arousal was never one of them, and he has to stifle the urge to throw mature conversation out the window and tackle Harry to the sheets right this second.

"The point is," he gasps a little and his eyes threaten to roll back in his head as Harry grazes his teeth down the lines of the Mark before following the same path with soft kisses, "I _do_ want you to come back with us, Harry, but only if _you_ want to."

Harry lifts his head from Draco's arm and Draco can't decide if he's grateful or disappointed.

"I've been gone a long time," he says. "And I know that I'll have a lot to answer for if I go back, and quite honestly, I'm terrified. If I survive the Weasleys and the rest of the Order, the _Prophet_ will do me in."

Draco sighs. Harry is right, of course, because unlike here, where it's been just the three of them, the three people who maybe care most about Harry in all the world, who most wanted to find him, back in London _everyone_ will have questions, and Harry won't have his mountain and its magic. He wonders, not for the first time, if this is worth it. If _he's_ worth all the trouble Harry will have to go through if he returns. He's screwing up his courage to ask as much when Harry speaks up again.

"But one thing terrifies me more than that, more than Molly Weasley and Gin and their questions and Rita Skeeter and the horrible things she'll print about me and whatever the Ministry will make me do. It's the image in my head of you walking into the Portkey Office in Arusha and leaving me behind. I don't want to be alone anymore, Draco, not after I finally feel _found_."

Harry's eyes are pleading and his voice catches and Draco takes his face between his hands and brings their lips together in a crushing kiss, because it's the only way he knows how to say a hundred things at one time, not the least of which are _you are found_ and _gods yes please come home_ and _don't be afraid, I'm not walking away_ and _I_ _want you_.

But his mind is still whirling because he has to find the words too. Draco would need to hear them if he was in Harry's position, he's certain. He breaks their kiss with no small bit of reluctance and a harsh internal admonishment to his body to stop bloody _responding_ every time he lays a hand on Harry Potter or he'll never be able to leave this bed.

This is important; this conversation has maybe been the most important one he's ever had in his life, and he has to get this part of it right. For Harry. For both of them.

"I think," he says after a few moments, searching Harry's eyes for the right thing to say to make the last bit of worry melt away from his face, "that the door to the Portkey Office might be sort of like the gate at the foot the mountain yesterday, Harry. I don't think I can go through it unless you're with me, because without you it won't be just a door, will it? Without you it'll be an ending, and I'm not ready for an ending, not when we've only just begun."

He thinks the words are having the desired effect, as he watches the soft contentedness he'd taken quiet pleasure in seeing earlier make its way back across the sun-darkened features. Fortified that maybe he's saying the right things in spite of feeling like a complete Hufflepuff, he goes on.

"I don't know how it will work either, Harry, if we're being truthful. And you're right about Molly and Ginny, they'll have more than a little bit to say. You're also probably right about Skeeter and the Ministry and the rest of them too. Although it might do you some good to be reminded that you _did_ kill the-" he breaks off and reaches for the marked skin on his arm as he always does, clutching at it a little more tightly as he forces the name from his lips, "kill _Voldemort_."

Draco clears his throat against the scratchiness that one word produced, or starts to before he's interrupted by a soft kiss from Harry that feels equal parts comforting and questioning. He sighs and lets Harry peel his fingers away from his arm to be replaced by softer, warmer, more curious ones, and he gulps as he tries to go on while Harry's fingertips skate over his marked skin.

"And that, since you - _oh_ - managed that, I should think that you could _- hmm - _probably survive- Merlin, Harry, I'm trying to make a point here and I'll never get through it as long as you're doing _that_!"

Even his protests are half-hearted as Harry looks up from the detailed study his fingers and lips and tongue seemed to be making of the skin on Draco's forearm and smiles, all trace of worry gone and, to Draco's very great interest, replaced by something almost predatory.

"I vanquished the most evil wizard the world has ever seen with a disarming spell, so the Ministry and the _Prophet_ and the Weasleys should be a piece of cake? That about cover it, Malfoy?" Harry's teasing tone belies the use of Draco's surname, as does the irrefutable evidence Harry's body is providing that Draco isn't the only one affected by the kisses and licks and nips to the Mark. When he speaks again, the quiet, authoritative note in his voice that Draco will always associate with _Guide Harry_ is back and sends the same thrill it has for days down Draco's spine. "Because if so, your point has been well-made and well-taken, and if it's all the same to you, I think the details about how you can protect me from my adoring public once we get back can wait just a little longer."

With that, Harry scrambles forward on his knees, pressing Draco back into the mound of pillows with insistent, hungry kisses. Draco pulls Harry down with him with needy, grasping fingers before wrapping his arms tightly around Harry's back in a gesture that's part _yes please need you now_ and part _if I hold on tight enough, you can't get away again_. Almost as if he understands, Harry flattens himself against Draco so completely that Draco is sure they can't touch any more skin together if they try, and as he basks in the warmth and perfect fit of Harry's body against his, and just then he can't help but think waiting _just a little longer_ might be just the thing indeed.


	13. Chapter Twelve

_As always, my thanks to all of you for reading and commenting, and to the usual suspects, who still know who they are. _

_Some of the anecdotal details contained in this story are mine, though if you take the path to the top of Africa, your mileage may vary. All fictional elements referred to herein belong to their respective owners. Harry Potter is Rowling's. All That Is Gold Does Not Glitter, Rivendell, the hobbits, and the rest of Middle Earth are Tolkien's, although I've grown quite attached to second breakfast and elevensies. No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

_

The morning sun has given way to midday before Draco and Harry drag themselves from tangled white sheets and into the shower again, and Draco is caught between silly happiness and mild embarrassment at how long even _that_ takes. He knows they're young, but for Merlin's sake, they'll have to learn to keep their hands to themselves occasionally once they get back to London or no one will ever get anything done.

Then again, he thinks as he lets Harry rinse suds out of his hair, an activity that's by turns better than and not quite as good as it was on Harry's mountain because here the water is hot and plentiful, but there was something _special_ about it up there that Draco now knows he'll never feel anywhere again, maybe it doesn't matter if they ever get anything done. He smiles at the impracticality of the thought, and Harry stops the soothing motions his hands were making over Draco's scalp. Draco opens one eye to look into green ones filled with amusement tinged with mock indignation.

"Something funny? I certainly can stop if you've stopped enjoying yourself."

Draco screws his face up in a ridiculous fashion and puts a hand up to send a spray of water shooting right into Harry's face.

"I was just thinking I could get used to this," he says, smiling smugly as Harry drags a hand over his eyes to clear away the water. "But I'm a bit afraid I might never get any work done."

Harry snorts and runs appreciative eyes over Draco's torso, following them with fingers that are starting to go a little pruny after such a long time under the water, and Draco rolls his eyes with feigned nonchalance he doesn't feel, because Harry can keep doing _that_ all day too.

"This is precisely what I'm talking about, Harry," Draco says between watery kisses under the spray, and Harry laughs and grudgingly pulls away but doesn't loosen the arms he's slid around Draco's waist.

"It's all part of my sinister plan, Malfoy," Harry's voice is light, teasing, but Draco thinks he sees another flash of worry cross his face for just an instant. "Trap you while you're down here on my territory so you can't shake me once we get back to yours."

It's meant to be a joke, or Draco thinks it's at least partly meant to be a joke, but in Draco's experience, every joke holds at least a bit of truth. He slides his hands around from where the were linked loosely behind Harry's back to run up Harry's arms and settle firmly on his shoulders, anchoring him.

"Listen to me," he says, voice low and firm, "I won't tell you I'm only going to say this once, because Merlin knows I'll tell you as many times as you need to hear it, Harry, but you have to believe it _this _time. This isn't going to change just because I'm not on holiday anymore, or because you're back in Wizarding London with adoring fans and press. They don't frighten me, not after all the things they said about me during the trials, and really, Hermione's still got such an effect on that wretched Skeeter that frankly she doesn't bother with us much anymore."

He gazes into Harry's eyes and can't help the pang in his chest at the vulnerability and insecurity that looks back. He knows them both so well himself that he thinks perhaps that's why he can stand here babbling into the cascading water at Harry bloody Potter without the least bit of shame, even though he'd never admit as much outside these walls. Through all the pain and terror of the years leading up to the Battle at Hogwarts and the war and the trials, Harry'd been there too, just on the other side, and he'd just been a child, just as Draco had.

And just like Draco, the people who loved Harry, who Harry had loved, left him. One after another, friends and family members fell victim to that stupid bloody war until it seemed like a foregone conclusion that everyone would leave eventually. Draco wonders if that's part of why Harry left when he did; he could only take being left behind for so long before he had to do the leaving. But even that hadn't saved Harry, because when he finally let someone in again, he'd died too.

Draco sighs.

"I'm not going anywhere, Harry, unless you want me to. And perhaps you've forgotten, but I've never been very good about doing what you want me to do, so even that's probably not going to go terribly well for you."

Harry stares back at him for a long moment before nodding, blinking against the spray bouncing off Draco's shoulders.

"It's just been a long time," he says finally. "Remember how you didn't want to sleep that first night on the mountain? How you thought maybe this was just a dream?"

Draco nods, already anticipating Harry's next words.

"Doesn't this seem like a dream to you? The kind you don't want to wake up from? Gods, Draco, I haven't hardly _thought_ about another living soul since we left Wanderlust last night. Not for any longer that it took to conjure their face in my head and then dismiss it. Not Ron or Hermione, or Rita bloody Skeeter or the Weasleys. Or Miles. Only _you_."

Draco smiles softly, pleased.

"Yes, but don't you remember what you said to me when I said that? It's not a dream, no matter how much it feels like one. Partly because you were right up there, neither of us has dreams like this," he slides his arms back down around Harry's back and tugs him closer, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, "but mostly because you aren't just going to wake up and find me gone, Harry. Not up there, not down here, and not in London. Alright?"

Harry smiles sheepishly and returns Draco's kiss before reaching around to turn the water off and pull Draco by the hand out of the shower and into the steamy bathroom.

"I know," Harry finally says as he wraps a towel around his waist and watches Draco towel off his own hair. "I know it's not a dream. But I also know I'm asking a lot to ask you to be there when I get back. There'll be a million questions and they won't like this, you know they won't." Harry gestures between the two of them. "And I feel like I'm throwing you back in front of them by asking you to be there with me."

Draco peers out from under the towel and can't suppress a snort.

"Harry, as much as I appreciate your ever-present need to protect everyone," he says, not adding the _at your own expense_ that's going through his mind, "I'm a big boy. They all know about my preferences, I assure you. The _Prophet_ has already been down that fairly anti-climatic road, and my mother's known since before I have. I'm certain we'll go through the requisite period of articles with witty titles like _Ex-Death Eater Malfoy's Plot to End the Potter Line Before It Begins: The Seduction of Harry Potter_, or something equally ridiculous, but frankly, what difference does it make?"

Harry cringes at the mention of the press, but Draco is pleased to see a smile at the hypothetical - though probably more accurate than either of them wants to think about - article title. It's a forgone conclusion that his _whatever this is_ with Harry will make the papers and the gossip circuit. He's just given up caring what the vultures think.

"The people who cared about us before will still care about us, Harry," he says, a bit more seriously as he trails Harry back into the bedroom to finally get dressed. "The ones who only ever cared about The Boy Who Lived and Draco Malfoy, Death Eater, will still only care about those titles. And the ones who didn't care before won't care now. They're all the same, they always will be. You can save them, but you can't change them."

Harry has stopped dressing, the tails of his undershirt hanging over unbuttoned trousers, and he's gaping at Draco in a manner that makes Draco think perhaps all the men he knows in Africa must have attended lessons on how to look like a fish out of water, and he had the great fortune to miss the invitation to enroll. At Draco's questioning look, Harry blinks and shakes his head as if to clear it.

"Sorry," he mutters, shoving his shirt into his trousers and buttoning them. "It's just, when did you get so _level-headed_? The Malfoy I knew-"

"Would have hexed on sight and thought later," Draco finishes dryly. "But that particular version of me also probably would be rotting in Azkaban instead of basking in morning-after glow from shagging Harry Potter the mountain guide, so perhaps we're both better off without him, hm?"

Once again, Draco's words have the desired effect and a dazzling smile breaks across Harry's face and the sound of his laughter unties knots of tension in Draco's back and shoulders in an instant. He's amazed at how much he cares about keeping that worried furrow off Harry's forehead, but it's comfortable somehow. There's no panicky fear about saying the wrong thing, only a deeply rooted need to say the _best_ thing he can come up with at the moment, and Draco is contrastingly unnerved and pleased with the new feeling.

"I'm not saying it'll be pleasant, and you're right, the _Prophet_ will have a jolly time, and I'm sure witches all over London will spend a great deal of time coming up with creative hexes to send at me as revenge for stealing away their precious saviour." Draco rolls his eyes and even Harry snorts. "But eventually they'll figure out I haven't tricked you, I'm not paying you, and I'm not the Dark Lord reincarnated playing out some twisted revenge. They wrote about you after you left, and people talked. They wrote about me when they saw me in some club with another wizard, and people talked. And then they stopped writing and people stopped talking because they had something else to write about and talk about. It'll be the same with...with _us_, unless we give them a reason for it not to be, at least after they've gotten their fill."

The _us_ has such a pleasurable ring to it in Draco's ears that he blushes a little, and is pleased to see Harry's face a little flushed as well around the somewhat-silly-yet-oddly-charming grin on his face. It hasn't escaped Draco's attention that they haven't given the _us_ a name, not that there's been an _us_ for very long. He doesn't know what he'd call it anyway, given the strange combination of the last week and the five years before and the seven before that, and he supposes that's another thing that can wait just a little bit longer.

"I suspect I'll manage it," Harry says, "and it's not like they'll follow me here- wait, Draco, they won't follow me here, will they?"

Now Harry really is panicked, and if he's honest, Draco feels a twinge of panic himself at the idea of the wizarding press coming here, or even of Harry's legions of faithful admirers deciding a trek up the mountain with the Boy Who Lived at the head of their merry parade. Selfishly, it's not something he wants to share with anyone who isn't here for the mountain itself. But that pales in the face of what it would mean for Harry and the magic-that-isn't-magic he's come to rely on up there, and how that would be destroyed by flocks of adoring idiots.

"I don't know," he sighs. "I suppose it's possible, although they'd be foolish to traipse down here and expect to skip up that mountain and be back in Diagon Alley in time for supper. I think the _idea_ of following you here will appeal to a great many of them. How many will actually do it, I have no earthly clue."

Harry nods and sighs, and Draco runs an absent, comforting hand down his arm with a smile.

They wander through the house into the kitchen where Harry makes coffee while Draco watches, sliding up to sit on the kitchen counter in a move he's practiced so many times in Hermione's kitchen that it doesn't even strike him as odd until he notices Harry eyeing him askance. Draco shrugs and smiles as if to say _I don't want to miss anything, what about it_? And Harry shrugs back and pours the coffee into cups, adding liberal amounts of sugar to Draco's with a grin and handing it to him.

"Thanks," Draco murmurs as he closes his eyes for the first-sip ritual. He knows Harry is watching, and he suspects that they might spend a thousand mornings together and Harry will still watch him take that first drink on every one of them. But coffee is sacred, and it transcends even the smug I-thoroughly-shagged-Harry Potter-last-night feeling he's fairly certain is radiating from every fibre of his being, and he will not compromise it just because Harry is staring.

And he _is_ staring, and grinning in fascination, waiting for Draco's response. Draco rolls his eyes but still can't stop the quiet sigh that follows the hot, bittersweet gulp, because Merlin, but that is _really_ good coffee.

"You don't really play fair, you know," Draco says to Harry, smiling back because he can't help it, and because he's rapidly making a list of things he could very easily get used to, and that smile has just landed itself very near the top of the list. "Your house is in the middle of a coffee plantation _and_ you know just how I like my coffee. Just because you happen to have more than a few skills that make other parts of my day beat out my first sip doesn't mean this tastes any less heavenly, and you know that too."

Harry smirks. "I haven't noticed you complaining about my other _skills_ anymore than you complain about how I make your coffee," he says. "And besides, I've known how you liked your coffee since we were in school. Not hard to get it right after watching you empty half the sugar at the Slytherin table into your cup every morning."

Draco is caught between a silly desire to protest that it isn't _that_ sweet (except it is, and he knows it, and he _likes_ it that way, thank you very much), and the urge to push Harry against the kitchen counter and snog him silly for admitting yet again that he'd been paying attention to Draco for as long as Draco's been paying attention to him, even if neither of them knew what it meant at the time. He settles for pulling a face at Harry before leaning over and planting a playful kiss on the same skin between Harry's shoulder and his neck that he'd abused with his teeth the night before.

He notices, as he pulls away, delighting in the shiver and quiet groan his lips pull from Harry, that his teeth marks are still visible, leaving angry red spots on tan skin. Draco kisses the spot again and drags a thumb over it. There is a part of him that wants to offer to heal it, so strong is his need not to have any part of Harry hurting because of him, but the part of him that rather likes the memory that goes with the marked skin is stronger.

It seems he's not the only one who feels that way, judging by the small upturn of Harry's lips and the color that crosses his cheeks as he reaches up to slide his own fingers over the spot. Draco smiles back, feeling strangely pleased with himself, or with Harry, or with this place, he has no idea, and steps back to resume his morning coffee ritual. Never mind that it's afternoon, and never mind that he has an audience, because the comfortable teasing that's soothed by stolen kisses isn't something he _could_ get used to, but something he _plans_ to get used to very soon.

Coffee, it seems, is no different than anything else they've undertaken to accomplish since arriving in Harry's house. It takes just a little too long to drink, and more than one warming charm has to be cast when lingering kisses and caresses leave their cups to cool. Draco thinks with no small amount of amusement that Hermione must be rolling her eyes and tapping her foot like mad back at the hotel, even though they aren't set to leave for the first stop on their safari tour until just before supper.

Many things can, and maybe even _should_ be done the Muggle way, at least here, Draco admits, but even Harry says that driving down paved highway for hours to reach their destination isn't one. Draco is grateful for the lazy day though, and not just because it means more time in this house alone with Harry. His legs feel like they're on fire; muscles he didn't even know he _had_ burn and scream with every step, and he'd be lying if he said he hasn't thought they might give out on him altogether once or twice. As he drains the contents of his cup, he's grateful Harry's house doesn't have stairs, because he's certain he would suffer the indignity of sitting and sliding gracelessly down them on his arse before he even attempted to walk down them properly.

"We've a couple of hours before we really have to be back at the hotel," Harry says as he washes their cups and returns them to a cupboard. "And before you say it, because I know you're about to, I think Ron and Hermione are fine. I arranged to have them tour Moshi with Deo for the day, and there's plenty to see, especially if they're walking as slowly as you are."

Draco can't even muster a haughty retort, since he knows he's been limping around all morning despite the soothing effects of several spectacular orgasms and two blissfully hot showers. He chuckles instead, picturing Ron and Hermione stumbling through Moshi with Deo, Ron grumbling and Hermione asking her usual litany of questions, because nothing, not even a week-long jaunt up a mountain and back down again, can quell her curiosity.

"We can go join them if you'd like," he continues and Draco almost groans at the thought of more _walking_, "or, since I can see just how much that idea appeals to you, we can stay here for a while longer. I have some work to catch up on and the house needs tending to, but I'd be happy for the company if you want to stay."

Draco is pleased to note that the shy, uncertain note has left Harry's voice this time, an indication, he thinks, that Harry knows without having to ask that Draco wants to stay - _for as long as you'll let me_ - and he smiles.

"I agreed to walk up the mountain and back down it with no small amount of cajoling on Ron's part," Draco says, "but another walk today might be more than I can bear, and he's not here to nag me about it anyway."

Harry laughs and Draco laughs with him, because they both are probably imagining the same picture of their friend, overly enthusiastic sometimes, but unfailingly _interested_ in a way that's completely different from Hermione's need to know about every intricate detail or the tendency toward obsession the Draco and Harry seem to share. _At least as it relates to some things_, Draco thinks with a stifled smirk, looking at Harry out of the corner of his eye.

Entering the bright, airy living room, Draco makes a beeline straight for the leather chair by the windows and slides into it gratefully. It's as comfortable as he'd expected from what is clearly Harry's favourite place to sit, and Draco absently wonders as he settles into it if perhaps it shouldn't be included in their packing when they return to London. He looks up at Harry and smiles at the amused exasperation on his face.

"You said you have work to do, and surely you cannot work in this chair, it's far too comfortable to promote productivity."

Draco slouches into the chair beneath Harry's gaze, making more of a show out of getting comfortable than is strictly necessary., With a shake of his head and a lingering trail of fingers across Draco's cheek, Harry moves to sit behind a small wooden desk near the wall of books, picking up a quill and bending his head over a sheaf of parchment without another word.

A light, warm breeze is blowing in through the screened panel to his left and he inhales deeply, smelling the warmth and humidity and the scent of plants and earth from the coffee fields outside. He reaches for the dog-eared, worn book on the table, turning it over in his hands and imagining a much-younger version of the handsome man across the room reading it by the light of some candle or fire in the distant wilderness in America and finding permission to wander the earth until he found _just Harry_. Draco opens the cover and lets his eyes run over the already-familiar words, rolling them around in his mind this time with just a little more reverence, because they've meant so much to the man Harry has become, and it's not long before he's lost in Middle Earth amidst hobbits and wizards and elves.

When Harry breaks the silence some time later, Draco is startled, and it takes him a moment to regain his bearings, so caught up was he in the magic of the story. _I'm not convinced the author really _wasn't _a wizard,_ he thinks to himself as he tries to recall what Harry just said. Realising that whatever it was missed his ears or their connection to his brain completely, he asks Harry to repeat himself.

"I asked you what it is you _do_. Back in London. I realised as I was sitting here going over supply lists and schedules that you know everything about my job, where I don't even know if you have one. Seems a bit daft, don't you think?"

Draco laughs. "Why, because usually you ask a bloke what he does for a living before you shag him in a tent?"

Harry grins back. "Something like that, yes. So? What are you, Potions Master Malfoy or something?"

Draco's still chuckling as he shakes his head.

"No, no potions. I lost my taste for them and just about everything else that could be linked to Dark Magic before the war was even over. Potions weren't the only thing I was ever good at, you know." Draco says teasingly, and Harry smiles sheepishly.

"Gringotts, then? Somehow I don't see you terribly excited by the prospect of sitting about counting other wizards' money all day, but even I'd trust you with my money, exacting bastard that you are."

"I'm merely particular and meticulous, Harry, and before you go calling the kettle black, you might make a study of the _exacting_ lists you've been huddled over this afternoon. I'm certain you have every inch of that mountain planned out to the best of your ability, hm?" Draco finally manages the haughty tone he's been failing at all day, but it dissolves with the face Harry pulls at him.

"Plants," he says finally, enjoying the look of confusion that crosses Harry's face. "The Muggles call it _landscape architecture_, which I'll admit I like better than _gardening_, but if there's nothing else for it, I suppose that's what I'd call it. I design gardens."

"You...what..._gardens_?" Harry splutters a bit, and Draco supposes he's remembering Draco's general disdain for many of the lessons in Herbology - honestly, who really _wanted_ to know how to re-pot Mandrakes anyway?

Draco rolls his eyes and goes on with a long-suffering sigh that's really more for effect than anything else.

"After the war and the great hunt for Harry Potter, when we all came back and realised we had to make something of ourselves, I was a bit lost. I didn't need the money, but I needed something to _do_. I was tired of death and misery and mystery. I didn't want anything to do with Potions, because too many people would suspect I was dabbling in Dark Arts. I had no interest in being an Auror or working for the Ministry, even if they'd have taken me, which I doubt. The only thing I could come up with was the fact that everywhere we went in that year we were looking for you, I could always find some solace in the _life_ outside.

"I suppose it's partly because of all the time I spent shut up in the Manor with the Dark Lord and my lunatic aunt and the rest of the Death Eaters. I _craved_ fresh air and living things when all of that was over. Anyway, we were talking about it one evening, and as she's wont to do, Hermione looked at me and said, 'Well, Draco, if you love being outdoors, and you love plants, then why not get a job that lets you do both?' Sometimes she's so bloody _right_ it's infuriating, but there you have it."

Harry has perched his chin on his hand, resting his elbow on the desk as he listens. At Draco's fond dig at Hermione he nods.

"She does have that knack, doesn't she? Irritating as hell, but usually you have to admit she's right in the end." He snorts. "Plants. Bloody hell, if there's one thing I never would have imagined, it's Draco Malfoy playing in the dirt."

Draco has long since stopped reacting to the varying levels of derision, shock, surprise, or good-natured barbs about his job. He knows it's probably one of the last things anyone would have pictured him doing; Pansy Parkinson told him the only things that would have surprised her more were the ideas of Draco teaching small children to, well, to do _anything_, or of him as a gamekeeper somewhere. Draco had laughed and made a comment about seeing the two as more or less the same job and agreed with her that neither was likely to be next on his list of professional aspirations. But even as a child he always loved the gardens at Malfoy Manor, and until the Dark Lord's presence cast a pall over everything that lived in or around the house, he found the peaceful solitude appealing, and as an adult, he takes pride in giving a piece of that feeling to others.

"I do not _play in the dirt_, Potter," he says. Okay, perhaps he hasn't _quite_ stopped reacting. "You do know what an architect does, right? With plans and the like?"

"Yes, _Malfoy_, I'm not a complete idiot, I know what an architect is." Harry is struggling to keep the laughter from his voice, and Draco suspects he's still imagining some ridiculous scenario involving Draco in coveralls up to his elbows in mud, and it's all he can do not to hex the smile right off Harry's face.

"Well, I thought I'd best check, seeing as how you spend a good portion of your time sleeping in what amounts to a sheet tied down by a few sticks." It's half-hearted at best, especially since Harry _knows_ that Draco will always harbour special affection for that ridiculous yellow tent.

"Mmhmm, I didn't notice you complaining about my sheet tied down with sticks the two nights you spent snoring in it like, what was it you called Ron? Some sort of Muggle deforestation equipment?"

Draco can't hold back his grin any longer. "Oh fine, that was half-arsed, I'll admit it." Harry grins back. "But I'll have you know that planning a proper garden takes some thought, and there are a great many wizards and even more Muggles that will pay a fair bit to have it done well. Sort of, I imagine, the same way a great many of us will pay a fair bit to follow your bony arse up that mountain, hm?"

"My arse is not bony," Harry huffs, still unable to suppress his smile. "And I didn't notice you complaining about _that_ either."

Harry puts his head back down, scribbling at his lists again. Draco chuckles and goes back to his book, smiling when he notices Harry shaking his head every now and again and whispering, "Plants. Bloody hell."

He's nearly lost in Rivendell when Harry speaks again, and this time Draco rolls his eyes and feigns exasperation before setting the book carefully back on the table.

"That's why you asked about all the plants on the mountain then? You weren't just looking for something to talk about?" Draco looks at him for a moment, confused. "The first couple of days, before any of us really could find a way to talk to each other, you asked me about the plants and the trees, remember?"

Draco thinks for a moment, suddenly remembering what Harry's talking about, and he laughs.

"I wasn't looking for a way to break the tension, if that's what you're asking," he says. "I really wanted to know. Although, if you must know, there was something rather appealing about listening to you go on and on about everything we encountered along the way. I just didn't need to fabricate interest because I really was interested."

Harry blushes at the bit of flirtation Draco puts into his voice, and since Draco finds _that_ rather appealing as well, he resolves to subject Harry to a good bit more flirting in the future.

"I thought you were doing it to make things easier on me, honestly, although I didn't know why," Harry says, getting up from his desk and stretching his arms over his head until his shirt untucks from his trousers and reveals a strip of skin at his waist that Draco suddenly has the overwhelming urge to touch.

As if reading his mind, Harry crosses the room to stand in front of him, nudging Draco's knees apart until he's between them, shins pressed against the leather of the chair. Draco reaches up to slide his fingers under Harry's shirt, brushing them over soft, hot skin so lightly that he feels gooseflesh rise up under his touch.

"Sorry to disappoint you," Draco says softly, looking up into Harry's face. "Purely selfish reasons, I'm afraid. I mostly just like the sound of your voice, and I couldn't very well ask you to recite Potions ingredients so I could listen to it, now could I?"

He trails off, a little embarrassed, wondering what on earth it is about Harry that makes him feel the need to prattle on like a schoolgirl with a crush. As if to answer, Harry drops to his knees in front of the chair, running his hands firmly up Draco's thighs before reaching up to grasp at the collar of his shirt and pull him into a deep, messy kiss.

Yes, this is certainly _exactly_ what it is about Harry, and for this he'll happily babble on for the rest of his life. He slides a hand around the back of Harry's neck and into his hair and winds the other into Harry's shirt, coaxing him up from the floor until he's astride Draco's knees on the chair and Draco can bring the fingers of the other hand back under the hem of Harry's shirt with a mutter of the now-familiar, "_skin_."

The assurance that neither of them is going to vanish at any moment is solidifying around them with each passing second, but for some reason the need for all the unencumbered contact he can get still prods at Draco, and he gives into it every chance he gets. Harry hisses as Draco curls fingers around his side, digging the nails in just the slightest bit in a gesture that feels like an anchor. He knows he will leave marks, more raised red skin to soothe later with lips and tongue, just like the ones on Harry's neck, but he cannot resist the urge to just hold on a little bit tighter.

Harry seems to share the sentiment, sliding fingers into Draco's hair and tugging just a bit harder than is really necessary to bring their lips together in a kiss the makes Draco's toes curl with want but that also reaches inside to the _curlsmolder_ place and soothes every last bit of ache that's ever resided there. Harry pulls away and runs his hands down the sides of Draco's face, bringing them to rest softly on his neck and under his chin as he turns his head to press slow, soft kisses against Draco's cheeks and nose and forehead, brushing lips over fluttering eyelids and down the length of his jaw on one side and then back up the other.

Not for the first time since this _thing _between the two of them began, Draco finds himself overwhelmed by the tenderness in Harry's kisses and touches. He fights against the urge to shut his eyes and just _feel_ as Harry brushes lips across his skin, instead bringing his own hand up to stroke the side of Harry's cheek, to slide exploring fingertips down the exposed line of throat and dip into the collar of his shirt. He reaches down to cover one of Harry's hands with his own and lifts the palm to his lips in Harry's familiar gesture, and Harry dips his forehead to lean against Draco's, breath ragged. They're silent for a while, and Draco releases Harry's hand to run both of his own under Harry's shirt, fingers skating over the muscles along his spine and dipping into the spaces between his ribs. Harry pulls his head away just a little and carefully unbuttons the top half of Draco's shirt and ghosts soft touches across the scarred lines, tracing each one like lines on a map.

Uncertain if the attentive look on Harry's face is repentant or just concentrated, and unwilling to break the moment by asking or mentioning that day so many years ago at Hogwarts, Draco gently covers Harry's hands with his own, dragging them up to his lips and pressing kisses against each trembling finger. Harry smiles and Draco sees his shoulders relax and he's grateful for the ability to say _I deserved it, and anyway, I forgive you and I'm still grateful_ without having to utter a word. When Draco smiles back, Harry sighs and leans forward to tuck his head into the crook of Draco's neck, drawing Draco's arms around his back before bringing his own hands up to rest on Draco's chest, this time with his palms pressed flat over the criss-crossing lines.

"Remind me again why we have to leave?" Harry's question is muffled, and Draco chuckles and tightens his grip.

"If you're referring to why we have to leave this house, I'd say probably because Hermione will find a way to bombard us with Howlers if we don't meet them at the hotel. You know how she feels about people being late." Harry snorts, his breath tickling Draco's neck. "In fact, we'd do best to be a bit early just in case.

"If you're referring to why we have to leave Africa, I'm a bit fuzzy on that one myself at the moment. I'm beginning to think you've spelled every place we're going to make me want to stay."

Harry pulls away from Draco's neck, though Draco holds him fast against any attempt to leave his current spot.

"Believe me, Draco, the mountain can do that all on its own," he says wryly. "It doesn't need me to keep you here, not really. I know that as well as anyone, remember? I couldn't leave either."

Draco smiles back and pulls Harry back down until their lips are almost touching.

"The mountain may not need you to make me want to stay, Harry, but I do."

Harry's mouth widens into a grin and he closes the space between their lips one more time. Draco allows himself to get lost in the sensations and roiling emotions that wash over him with every kiss for a few more moments before they finally, reluctantly separate and untangle fingers and limbs to go meet Ron and Hermione, each unsubtly adjusting trousers with sheepish grins as they stumble around the house collecting belongings and exchanging one last kiss as Harry wraps an arm around Draco's waist to Apparate them back to the hotel.


	14. Chapter Thirteen

_As always, my thanks to all of you for reading and commenting, and to the usual suspects, who still know who they are. I fell off the reply wagon this week, but I'll be back on it after this update. _

_Some of the anecdotal details contained in this story are mine, though if you take the path to the top of Africa or into the Ngorongoro Crater, your mileage may vary. I can tell you definitively, however, that the monkeys will break into your room if you leave food out. Or possibly your grandmother's room, and you will struggle not to laugh. All fictional elements referred to herein belong to their respective owners. Harry Potter is Rowling's. No copyright infringement intended._

* * *

As it turns out, they arrive back at the hotel about the same time their friends limp in from their tour of Moshi. Red-faced and sweaty from the heat and humidity, they're still much as Draco would have expected: Hermione, full of questions and new facts, is chattering non-stop with Deo about a children's home or school or something. Ron, though slightly more subdued, is smiling as he approaches, which Draco knows to mean they are in for a lesson in some strange Muggle tradition Ron's just discovered.

And just as he suspected, Ron immediately begins to regale them with stories about the day ranging from the shops (they sell Muggle and Magical items in the same stores here), to the pain in their legs (Ron nearly fell down a flight of stairs and Hermione apparently _did_ slide down more than one set in the manner Draco had considered for himself earlier, much to everyone's very great amusement), to what turned out to have been both a children's home _and_ a school that they'd visited on their way back.

"Harry," Hermione says pointedly to a suddenly-very-interested-in-anything-but-this-conversation Harry at Draco's side, "you didn't tell us Wanderlust is a partner in a home for children without parents."

The sternness in her voice is completely undone by the look of complete admiration on her face. Draco knows that any vestige of anger she might have held for Harry is gone, because besides Ron, the only thing Hermione loves more than her books is a good cause.

Harry sighs, but Draco can see he's pleased at the look on Hermione's face.

"It's not uncommon for guiding companies to sponsor something locally," he says finally. "It's the least we can do for showing up here and running our businesses on their mountain. There are a lot of Muggle children in the area who have lost parents to disease, and no small number of magical ones as well." He shrugs uncomfortably. "Suppose I have a bit of a soft spot for children without parents, especially when they've not got a place like Hogwarts to go to when they're old enough. No one should go through life alone, no matter how old they are."

Draco nudges Harry softly, and when green eyes meet his, he smiles softly and whispers, "Not alone anymore," and Harry nods once and smiles back, reaching down to grasp at Draco's fingers for something that feels a bit like a request for reassurance and a bit like gratitude. Draco squeezes back, not missing Ron's mock-exasperated sigh or Hermione's wink when they both see the gesture.

"Well, it's wonderful, Harry, really it is." Hermione says. Before she can go on, Ron jumps in, telling them in great detail about the school and the classrooms and dormitories, and the little boy they met who looked at them both like they'd gone mad when they asked if magical children had different lessons than non-magical ones.

"He told us there wasn't any sense in that, because you still had to know how to read and do arithmetic whether you could do magic or not, and that cooking tastes better without magic anyway, so of course they took the same lessons. Of course, he was about seven, but I tell you, I've never felt so dressed-down by a child in my whole life!"

Draco and Harry laugh, and Ron is smiling with a bit of awe that Draco thinks is partly because he's just been given a great lesson on magic by a very small child, and partly because, after five years, he's standing in the courtyard of a hotel in Africa laughing about it with Harry Potter, who is currently holding hands with Draco Malfoy.

"Are you sure _this_ isn't a dream?" Draco whispers playfully under his breath in Harry's ear as Ron turns to ask Hermione about what they have left to pack up.

"Doubt it," Harry whispers back, still laughing. "But if it is, it's another good one, hm?" He nudges Draco in the ribs and tightens their fingers together, and Draco nods.

Hermione wanders off to their room in search of a quick shower - this much humidity is really _not_ kind to her hair, and Draco is trying very hard not to laugh at her in spite of himself - and the last of their things, and Harry whispers to Draco that he just has to tie up a few loose ends with Deo.

"Pint?" Ron asks Draco, gesturing to the cafe on the bottom level of the hotel, and Draco nods. A sharp-tongued waitress brings two pints and a heap of steaming, greasy chips to the table at Ron's request.

Draco eyes the plate, realising he hasn't eaten all day, and Ron laughs at him.

"Go on, mate, you look like you haven't seen food in days. Just don't tear my fingers off if I decide to have one or two, eh?"

Draco snorts but throws manners out the window in favour of shovelling the greasy potatoes ungracefully into his mouth and groaning in appreciation. Food in general and food with very little redeeming nutritional value in particular are great weaknesses of Draco's, and now that he's recovered from his bout of altitude sickness (and expended a fair bit of energy in both nocturnal and morning activities with Harry), he's determined to make up for lost time.

Ron laughs but attacks the food with equal vigour, both of them quiet for a few minutes until half the plate is gone and they're both sitting back in their chairs in the late afternoon sun, looking, Draco suspects, like a couple of fat housecats who've just found an owlery.

"So," Ron says, and Draco turns to regard him carefully, recognising the teasing tone in his voice. "You two have a nice night then? Spend the evening catching up on old times and playing chess? Chatting about the good old days back at school when you wanted to hex each other's balls off?"

Draco rolls his eyes at his friend's mocking expression. "Something like that, Weasley. Though I'll have you know I'm very glad I _didn't_ hex his balls off, no matter how badly I might have wanted to at the time."

The satisfaction Draco gets from the horrified look on Ron's face almost makes up for being covered by a spray of ale from the drink Ron just took. As he mops at his face with the napkin in front of him, chuckling, he is struck by just how much even _this_ must feel like a dream to Harry, who is standing not far away with Deo and watching him and Ron with no small amount of curious confusion on his face.

Though Draco knows it's all been explained and explained and explained again, the actual sight of his one-time arch-rival sharing a pint with his boyhood best mate must be about all the surreal Harry can handle at one time. He shoots the man a surreptitious smile before turning back to Ron, who is still spluttering. Draco rolls his eyes and thumps Ron on the back with a little more force than is probably needed, and Ron sits back in his chair, tears in his eyes, and pulls a face at Draco.

"Oh come on, Ron," Draco says, "you really didn't think that one through."

Ron smiles sheepishly and shrugs.

"No, I didn't, but I didn't think you'd actually take the bait. Though why on earth I didn't is really a mystery now I think on it."

Draco snorts and nods.

"You did talk though, right?" Ron's voice is more hesitant now, and Draco isn't sure if it's because he's afraid that Draco will say that no, they didn't talk, they shagged each other silly all night and all morning and had no time to talk (which, if he's honest, isn't as far from the truth as it might be), or if he's afraid they did, and that none of them will like the outcome.

"Yes, Ron, we did find a few spare moments to exchange pleasantries, discuss the weather, ask for the temperature in the shower to be adjusted, things like that," Draco says casually, though he threw in that last only after making sure Ron's glass was set firmly on the table.

Ron glares. "That's not what I-"

"Meant, yes, I know." Draco smiles. "Yes, we talked. No, I'm not telling you everything that was said, I think you three have proved you don't need me to act as go-between any longer and besides, a good deal of it is none of your business unless Harry decides otherwise. But as far as what you're really asking, yes, he's coming back with us, although I don't know for how long, and he's not giving this place up so don't even ask."

The last bit comes out in more of a defensive rush than Draco intends, and Ron smirks. "For a man who didn't want to come on this trip to begin with, Draco, you've become rather attached to this place."

Draco glances at the mountain looming through the clouds over the courtyard, then at Harry. "Yes," he says quietly, "I suppose I have."

He turns back to Ron, who is smiling happily at the unexpected news. He glances from Harry to Draco and back again with a disconcerting look that reminds Draco of one of those overly-dramatic father figures in one of Ron's Muggle television programmes whose children have just chosen good over evil, thus ending the weekly storyline. Still, Draco supposes he can't blame the man; in spite of everything - the strength of his relationship with Hermione, his unlikely friendship with Draco himself, a job he excels at simply because he's _good_, not because he's Harry Potter's mate - Draco knows Ron's missed Harry the most. Or the version of Harry that left, anyway, because Draco's certain _he'll_ have the market cornered on missing _this_ Harry if he's so much as gone to work too long once they get back.

Gods, he really is turning into a Hufflepuff.

"I'm glad for you," Ron says, and Draco looks at him with surprise.

"For _me_?" Draco says, a little incredulous. "Merlin, Weasley, after all that time we spent looking, you're entitled to be a little glad for yourself you know."

Ron smiles and sits back in his chair, taking a long pull from his glass as he regards Draco. "Oh, I am, really. I'm looking forward to getting to know him again. I mean, I know him, obviously, but you said yourself a good many things have changed since he left."

Draco looks at his friend fondly. It's not that he doesn't know that Ron is smarter than most people give him credit for, more that he's impressed at both Ron's ability to look forward instead of holding a grudge, and that he's not bothered by the possibility that his friend might be someone different from the boy who slipped out of Grimmauld Place five years ago.

Then again, he chides himself, if Ron Weasley couldn't embrace change in people, they would most assuredly _not_ be sitting here having this conversation.

"No, I'm glad for you, Malfoy, because it's about bloody time you got to have a little bit of happiness in your life too. And don't you start that _oh, Weasel, you're being a sentimental sod, I'm more than content with my piles of galleons and my plants and my dirt and all those ridiculous men I date for three weeks before I send them packing because they aren't Harry Potter._ I know you better than all that, mate, and you know it."

Ron looks so smug that Draco considers hexing him for just a second before he bursts out laughing.

"I don't know that I'd have put it quite like that," he gasps through his chuckles. "But I'll concede the point. Although I did _not_ send them _all_ packing after three weeks!" His attempts at indignation are a complete failure, partly because Ron is still mostly right, and partly because he can't stop laughing at Ron's impression of his haughty tone, which was both spot on and so pretentious Draco can hardly stand it.

"Oh, right, my mistake. That last bloke lasted what, six weeks? Two months?" Draco pulls a face at him. "_Terry_, was that his name? The one with the dark hair and glasses?" Ron looks pointedly at Harry and cackles.

"Oh fine, just shut it, would you? I _was_ content though, you know that well enough too." Ron nods, still smirking. Draco sighs. "Oh you know I was. Bloody hell, Ron, no one knows me as well as you two anymore, not Blaise or Pansy or even my own mother, and for some reason that's been, well, less of a problem than I might have expected it to be." Draco huffs, and Ron laughs again, looking impressively smug for a Weasley.

"But I'll graciously accept that you're pleased for me, because frankly I'm rather pleased for myself for the moment, although I really have no idea how this is all going to work out. Then again, if you'd asked me five years ago if spending a year traipsing all over Europe with you and Hermione searching for Harry Potter would work out, I would have laughed myself to death." Draco shrugs. "So what do I know anyway?"

Ron stands and claps Draco on the back. "Well, I am pleased for you, either way. And so's Hermione, although she's probably going to hug you and give you some speech about everyone deserving to find someone and leave out the part where I mocked you in favour of some sappy advice, so be warned."

Draco laughs and watches Ron head off in the direction of his room to help Hermione finish packing as Harry approaches the table.

"I take it you told him then," Harry says as he takes Ron's seat and sets about eating the rest of the chips on the plate with almost as much enthusiasm as Draco had shown.

"He asked," Draco says, shrugging. "I didn't see the harm in telling him, although I suppose I should have let you do it."

"No, I'm glad you did, actually," Harry says. "Seems he's happy enough about it, but that doesn't mean I wasn't still a little worried. I know, I know, when did the Boy Who Lived turn into such a coward, right?"

He sighs and Draco reaches across the table to pluck a chip from his fingers. "Harry, you're going to have to cut them a break too, you know? This is new for them as well, but it'll be easier if you just trust that they _do_ care instead of all three of you dancing around it, because you're all making me rather dizzy, but also because they're your friends, even after all this time. Have a little faith."

"Listen to you," Harry says, shaking his head, "you know, if you keep saying things like that, the Sorting Hat's liable to come find you and throw you right out of Slytherin on your arse."

Draco laughs. "Quite the contrary, actually. They're my friends. They're your friends. You and I are...well, we're whatever we are," Harry snorts at him, "and it is in _my_ best interest for everyone to just get along as quickly as possible so as not to further interrupt _my_ life."

"I retract my statement, you're practically Salazar himself," Harry says rolling his eyes. "Oh boy, here it comes."

Harry's eyes have gone wide, and Draco turns to look over his shoulder at what's set Harry on edge and he half-groans, half-laughs. Hermione is limping out the doorway to their room, eyes wild and face positively beaming.

"Oh for Merlin's sake, Harry, you knew she'd do this when she found out. Don't make her walk any further than she has to, she looks like she'll fall over any second!" Draco laughs and tugs on Harry's arm from across the table to pull him from his chair.

Harry reddens but does as Draco suggests, walking a little awkwardly towards Hermione as she limp-runs in their direction but still shortening her walk considerably, and losing all the awkwardness when she throws her arms around his neck with a yelp. Draco grins as he watches, knowing full well that Harry will start to turn just a little red in the face in a minute or two unless Hermione loosens her grip, but also that she's not likely to do that now that Harry's put his own arms around her back with what appears to be nearly as much enthusiasm.

"Finally," he murmurs under his breath, relief washing over him at visible confirmation that maybe they'll all move on from this somehow. He swallows that damned lump that's rising in his throat again, though he takes small comfort in noting that Ron's eyes are a little shiny as well, even from halfway across the courtyard. And when they separate, he notices tears on Hermione's cheeks and even dampness on Harry's, so perhaps at least if he's going to turn into such a sap, he's in good company.

_Bloody Gryffindors_, he thinks good-naturedly as he stands with some effort and limps to the join the little gathering. By the time he crosses the courtyard, Hermione has relinquished her grip on Harry and is beaming as Ron claps him on the shoulder with a grin. Not wanting to intrude too much, because he's had his moment with Harry over this already, he stands at Harry's side and presses a hand against the small of Harry's back that goes unnoticed by his friends. But Harry leans ever so slightly into his touch and Draco sees the hint of a smile quirk his lips as he answers some question of Ron's that Draco doesn't really hear.

What a normal little scene they make, really, four young people just down from the mountain to any casual observer's eye. But not to Draco's eye, and he finds himself wishing for that pensieve again. Gods, this is what they hoped for every day for so long that Draco has a hard time remembering what it was like _not_ to wonder where Harry was. And now Harry's _here_, and he's more than Draco could have wished for on his best day, and Hermione is beaming and Ron is smiling the smile he almost never uses anymore, and Draco wants to freeze the whole little moment for safekeeping.

Still, he knows he's not the only one thinking that way, as he watches Hermione blink back tears and Ron's smile grow even bigger as Harry talks about some wretched-sounding rock wall they can climb on some mountain in the Scottish Highlands, and he can't help but laugh.

After a few more animated bursts of conversation about _how pleased everyone will be to see you, Harry_, and _you won't believe how much has changed, _anda few other things Draco still isn't quite registering through the pleased contentedness he's feeling, they agree to set off at Harry's suggestion that they will want to see the lodge they're going to before the sun sets. In a brief moment of _Guide Harry_ authority, which Draco thinks might sound a little like overprotectiveness but likes just the same, Harry insists on bringing them all by side-along, because, "you're all exhausted and can barely stand, and none of you has the least idea where we're going."

Draco elects to stay behind, watching in amusement as a protesting Hermione and a far more willing Ron disappear with Harry in a loud _crack_, followed by a slightly quieter one when Harry reappears to his right. Draco is looking up at the mountain, bathed, as it was the night before, in the softening light of late afternoon. The glacial snow glistens and shimmers, giving the mountain an oddly magical look that makes Draco smile. Harry steps to stand behind him, wrapping warm arms around his waist and linking his fingers across the flat of Draco's belly. Draco feels Harry's breath on his jaw as a chin comes to rest softly on his shoulder, and he leans back into the embrace with a sigh.

"We'll come back before we leave," Harry says. "You'll see it again."

"So will you," Draco whispers back and twines his own fingers through Harry's. "And not just before we leave."

Harry nods, but his breath catches at Draco's words, and Draco knows Harry's harbouring the fear that somehow he'll be saying goodbye to this place for good.

"I want you to come home, Harry," he says, voice still quiet, "we all do. But I know as well as you do that you belong down here, and I won't be the reason you leave this behind for good. Not after all you've given here, and all this place has given you."

Harry tightens his arm around Draco's waist and tilts his head to bury his face in the crook of Draco's neck. Draco turns in his arms, not without some effort as he twists against Harry's grip until he finally is looking into Harry's face. The worry has come and gone, he thinks, but Harry still lets his eyes flick past Draco and up at the mountain, and Draco smiles in spite of himself.

"We're coming back, Harry, all right?" He says it firmly, but his voice is soft. "There's nothing to plant in the dead of winter in London, so if you'll have me, I'll come putter around your house doing Merlin knows what while you haul clients up there, because I'm serious about you coming back. You can't be the only one giving something up to make this work, or it just plain _won't_ work."

Harry is staring at him, eyes wide, smile threatening to split his face.

"You'll do that? You'll leave everything behind and come back here with me?" He breathes the questions, delighted surprise mixing with disbelief on his face, and Draco's responding laugh is half-chuckle, half-sob, the _curlsmolder _ feeling twisting at his heart in a new way that's still painful, but in the sweetest way imaginable.

"Gods, Harry," he whispers, not trusting his voice to remain steady. "I'd pitch it all now and learn to roast coffee at your house if I thought it would work, and believe me, there's a very big part of me that thinks it just might. But there's my mother, and Ron and Hermione, and I _do_ have a life in London, one I'm rather proud of after everything that's happened, and I'd like to share it with you for a little while."

The words are out before Draco can stop them, and he feels himself blushing under yet another confession he hadn't meant to offer. But it's true, he supposes, and there's no sense in keeping it from Harry, not in the shadow of the mountain whose magic he will forever be indebted to for bringing him to this moment. He does have a life in London, a very nice life with a good job and more than enough money and friends he's still not sure he deserves but who make him want to be the kind of person who does, and he really is _content_. But in the past few days, he's discovered something far better than _content_, and knows it's _Harry_ that's at the heart of the new feeling, but he thinks that the effect this place has on Harry makes a great deal of difference as well.

He finally drags his eyes up to meet Harry's, and the look of pure joy on his face is enough to erase Draco's embarrassment at his unwitting confession, because once again he knows that whether or not he's said the _right_ thing, he's managed to find the _best_ thing for just this moment. Harry puts his hands on either side of Draco's face, sliding thumbs over Draco's cheeks softly before pressing their lips together. Draco melts into the kiss, and he feels Harry do the same, each pouring gratitude and hope and possibility into every flick of tongues and slide of lips, and Draco wonders if he'll ever just kiss anyone again without feeling _everything_ in every caress.

He hopes not.

"They'll be wondering what happened to us," Harry breathes as they break apart. Draco chuckles.

"Somehow I doubt they'll be _wondering_," Draco says, and Harry laughs. "I imagine they'll have a fairly good guess at what's kept us, in fact. But we should probably go just the same."

Harry presses one last kiss to Draco's lips, and then Draco feels the familiar disorienting pull as they Apparate away, the bright glow of the sunlight shining on the peak of Harry's mountain dancing behind Draco's eyelids as he shuts his eyes against the sensation.

When he opens them again, Draco has to work to keep his jaw from dropping open. They're standing in the center of a large, open room not unlike the living room in Harry's house outside Moshi, only much larger. The panoramic windows and paneled screens that line the outside of the room in a semi-circular shape give way to a balcony lined with chairs and chaises and small tables, several of which are occupied by other visitors. More chairs, not unlike the worn leather one in Harry's house, sit in clusters inside around a large, crackling fireplace that serves as the centerpiece of the lodge's lobby and rises up into the vaulted ceiling. One side of the space is occupied by the lodge's restaurant, and Draco's mouth waters at the smells wafting from the open kitchen that's on display in the middle of the tables of diners.

But the view beyond the balcony is what's stopped Draco in his tracks; the railing gives way to what looks like a very long drop down the side of the cliff face the lodge is built into and opens to a vast, lush, green plain far below. It's lined all the way around by an impressive ring of hills and mountains and cliffs that give him a fairly good impression of the one the building he's standing in is perched upon. He can see where the crater floor below is dotted by herds of the different animals they've come here to see, their shadows casting dark spots in the orange light of the late afternoon.

Ron and Hermione are walking away from an unassuming desk in the back corner of the lobby and, upon spotting them, change course to meet them, amusement evident on both their faces.

"We took the liberty of checking you in," Hermione says, holding out a packet containing what Draco assumes is his room key and barely suppressing a grin as she takes in the sight of him still standing tangled in Harry's arms.

Draco blushes slightly but doesn't step away, not quite ready to break contact with Harry after their words in the courtyard. He won't deny that the landscape laid out before them in the Ngorongoro Crater is stunning, but there's a piece of him that's already missing the looming presence of Harry's mountain, and he doesn't think he's alone in that feeling.

As if reading his mind, he feels Harry's fingers tighten around the hem of his shirt at his side, and he smiles, pressing his body a little bit closer to Harry's side in a gesture he knows his friends won't see. He reaches out to take the packet from Hermione with murmured thanks, looking around to get his bearings.

"The rooms are actually more like little huts on the perimeter of the crater," Hermione says as they walk outside the lodge and down a planked walkway.

His friends turn into one of the strikingly-hut-like structures built into the hill farthest away from the lodge, pointing Draco and Harry to the next one with a wave and a promise to meet inside for supper in an hour and a poorly-hidden giggle from Hermione as Ron pulls her through the door and closes it firmly behind them. Draco rolls his eyes and Harry chuckles as they stroll to their own room, slowing their walk to look over the walkway's railing into the crater in the setting sun. Draco can't bite back a smile as Harry reaches out to wrap their fingers together, and he realises that maybe for the first time in his life in the face of open affection from another man, he doesn't want to.

"Come on," Harry says after a few minutes, pushing away from the rail and pulling Draco by the hand through the door of their room.

The room is no less spectacular than either the lodge or the view beyond it, with its own private balcony nestled on the far side of the hut and another wall of open screens like the one at Harry's house. Most of the room itself is taken up by a rather luxurious-looking bed with more pillows than Draco thinks even _Harry_ could need and covered by an elegantly-draped, gauzy net that's meant to keep the bugs away. On the far end of the room is a door that opens into a bathroom that's larger than any even in Malfoy Manor, the centerpiece of which is a claw-footed bathtub big enough for more people than Draco ever needs to share a bath with that's pushed up against its own window overlooking the crater.

"Not half bad, hm?" Harry says, coming to stand behind Draco at one of the screened panels after settling their belongings into a cupboard from where they'd been set just inside the door to "keep the monkeys away from their things." Evidently, some of the local fauna have no compunction about visiting unoccupied rooms and appropriating anything left out in plain sight.

Draco hums his approval as he stares out at the fiery sky and sunlit plains, then sighs as he feels Harry's arms slide around his waist again. This time though, they slide under the hem of his shirt, and Harry presses his mouth against Draco's neck softly, dragging his tongue slowly up the side of his throat to his ear and then nipping at Draco's earlobe with his teeth. Draco's hum turns to a whine as Harry trails his fingers over his belly in circling, ticklish caresses, and he tilts his head to expose more skin for Harry's lips even as every touch is already driving him half-mad with arousal.

He's not the only one, he realises with pleasure, as he feels Harry's erection pressing against his arse through their trousers, and he pushes his hips back intentionally, drawing a groan from Harry. Unable to resist any longer, he twists in Harry's grip so they're facing one another, drawing his arms around Harry's back and pulling their bodies together.

Something about the look in Harry's eyes, dancing like the green sparks in a Floo, coupled with significance of the day, of the words they exchanged that morning in Harry's bed and later in the courtyard in the shadow of the mountain makes him stop, breathing hard.

"You're really coming with me," he breathes, overcome by a tightness in his chest and the urge to grin until his face hurts.

Harry smiles, his face soft, and he lifts a hand to Draco's face and runs his thumb slowly across Draco's own smile, tracing his upturned lips softly.

"We're really coming back here," Harry says softly, and Draco nods without hesitation, a little in awe at how easy the choice is to twine their lives together after such a short period of time.

Then again, it hasn't really been so short, not really.

And then, because Draco thinks he's spent enough time in his life _wanting_ to kiss Harry Potter and not nearly enough time actually _doing _so yet, he kisses Harry soundly, sliding his tongue against Harry's and delighting in the feel of their lips moving together. They shuffle away from the window, lips still pressed together, as Draco gently pushes Harry back towards the bed. Harry's hands are still beneath Draco's shirt, palms moving over his waist and sliding up his back, then back down to grab at the hem and pull the shirt over Draco's head in one fluid motion before tearing off his own, only breaking their kiss for a breath.

The first touch of skin-on-skin as they press their bare chests back together feels like the crackling air of a well-cast spell, and the catch of Draco's breath mingles with Harry's sigh in a raspy sound that makes Draco shiver. He slides his hands up to cup Harry's face, then curling his fingers into that tangle of hair with a tug, needing to pull Harry somehow even closer. He thinks maybe Harry is feeling the same way as he feels strong fingertips digging into the muscles in his back as they tumble into the softness of the mattress and mounds of pillows in the bed.

Harry rolls them with ease that would otherwise have made Draco glare at him, but as he looks down into Harry's flushed face against the white pillowcases, he can think of nothing more than how badly he _wants_, and how amazingly easy _this_ has become in just a few days. Harry quirks a smile as he looks back up at him, then arches his back, thrusting his hips up against Draco's in a slow, deliberate, maddening movement that draws another whine from Draco that he punctuates with a deep, searing kiss.

Pulling Harry so they face one another on their sides, Draco drags fumbling fingers over the buttons on Harry's trousers, only vaguely registering Harry mumbling something against his lips before suddenly finding his fingers running over bare skin instead.

He pulls back for a moment, trying not to laugh.

"You just _vanished_ our trousers?" He asks breathlessly, looking into Harry's face.

Harry shrugs a little sheepishly and kisses Draco again, slow and sweet this time, stealing the last bit of breath Draco had left in him.

"I didn't want to wait any longer," he says softly, tangling his legs with Draco's in a way that slides their cocks together and makes Draco hiss appreciatively.

"Then don't," Draco whispers before kissing Harry again and rolling onto his back, pulling Harry with him as much with his lips at Harry's neck as with his hands. He runs his tongue over the still-visible bite at the base of his throat as if to soothe it further as Harry links their fingers together and presses them into the pillows over Draco's head.

They stay that way for what seems like an eternity, backs arching and hips flexing, whimpering and cursing into one another's mouths as they kiss and nip and Draco thinks he may go mad with his need to touch himself or Harry or both. He wills himself not to struggle against the grip of Harry's fingers, though he does revel in the press of their palms and the strain he feels in Harry's wrists and forearms against his, instead pushing up into Harry with an urgency that makes him moan with every roll of his hips.

Their kisses reflect the urgency, and Draco feels the delicious sting of Harry's teeth against his lips more than once, knowing he's responding the same way before Harry finally releases Draco's fingers, though he keeps a grip on Draco's left arm long enough to pull away from Draco's lips and drag his tongue across Draco's marked skin. He still can't decide if it's the intimacy of the gesture or the sensitivity of his skin or the erotic sense of _this is so wrong it's right_ that goes along with the Saviour of the Wizarding World licking hot, wet stripes across the Dark Mark, but his eyes roll back in his head and he chokes out a cry as he watches Harry's mouth against his arm.

Harry flicks his eyes up to meet Draco's and the lust reflected back at him causes the already fraying strands of his control to snap. He slides both feet from where they're tangled with Harry's in the sheets to place them flat against the mattress, knees pulled up and spread apart on either side of Harry's hips in a motion that says everything Harry needs to hear without a word.

Harry groans and slides against Draco, making both their breaths catch before whispering a Summoning charm against Draco's mouth that sends the familiar stoppered bottle flying into Harry's outstretched hand. Draco reaches out to clasp at the bottle or the hand that's holding it, he's not sure, just needing to somehow say _yes please now that yes_, and Harry smiles and sits back, pouring the shiny-slick contents of the bottle over his fingers. He flicks his eyes over Draco's rapidly-rising chest and flushed skin and erect cock before sliding them back up to lock on Draco's in a gaze so intense that Draco has to fight the urge to break it before that damnable lump rises up in his throat again. But he doesn't, because he knows he probably will never be able to look away from those eyes again, and he's still staring into them when he feels the cool, slippery glide of fingers teasing his entrance, and he gasps and arches into the touch.

Harry is still watching him, taking in every move and arch and whimper as he slowly slides a finger inside and strokes his own cock. Draco writhes against first one finger, and then two, and Harry twists and slides and stretches and adds a third as Draco pushes back against him, silently begging for _more Harry now please._

He watches Harry watching him, torn between the desire he can barely contain to touch and kiss and lick every inch of Harry's body and the need to keep his eyes glued to the overwhelmingly arousing sight above him, a flush creeping down Harry's lean, muscled torso and his tongue flicking over dry, parted lips as he stares back down at Draco.

At long last desire wins out though, and Draco rasps between clenched teeth, still arching against Harry's fingers, "Harry, _please_." He hisses and gasps against a twist and the feeling of Harry's mouth grazing the skin on the inside of his thigh. "Don't...don't want to wait any longer."

The echo of Harry's earlier words has the effect Draco hoped for, and Harry slides his fingers away to pour the remaining contents of the bottle over his palm and then returns to stroke the shiny oil over his cock. Draco watches with as much interest as Harry showed moments before, swiping his tongue over his bottom lip in anticipation and feeling his breath catch as he feels Harry press against him and begin to slowly slide inside. Just as he did on the mountain, Harry watches Draco's every reaction, pushing in further only when Draco urges him on with a nod or a whispered, "more, gods Harry, _more_," and stilling with every gasping breath until Draco feels Harry's hips pressed flush against his arse.

He reaches up a hand to trail his fingers over every inch of Harry's chest he can reach and cants his hips up against Harry's cock.

"Move, Harry," he whispers when he thinks he can't take anymore waiting, "fuck, please _move_."

Harry sighs shakily and slides slowly out and back in again. Draco can see the threads of self-control in his face beginning to fray, and the slippery grip of his fingers on Draco's knees is just as telling. Draco rolls his hips again and groans at the pleasurable friction and the dull burn that might be painful if it wasn't for the promise it brings with it. Harry is biting down hard on his bottom lip, eyelids fluttering with every thrust, but he holds Draco's gaze.

Draco's breathing is ragged and raspy and punctuated with whispers of encouragement, begging Harry for _more, harder, faster_, because every movement of Harry's hips brings sparks behind Draco's eyes, driving him closer to an edge he never wants to reach and yet can't wait to tumble over. He twists his fingers in the soft, white cotton beneath him, arching and writhing beneath Harry's stare and resisting the urge to take his cock in his hand because he knows he'll be gone in a matter of seconds if he does.

He feels the rhythm of Harry's hips become erratic, and the sounds of skin slapping together and shakily-gasped breaths grow louder and more desperate. Harry slides still-gripping fingers down from Draco's knee over his thigh and then up to press a hot, sweaty palm over Draco's belly and up against the lines on Draco's chest. The tenderness of the motion makes Draco's heart beat even faster, and he's sure Harry can feel it against his palm, and he arches again to push Harry deeper inside, seeing stars as he does so and fighting to keep his eyes from rolling back in his head, determined not to break eye contact.

Harry has released his lower lip from between his teeth and is muttering under his breath, whispering streams of gibberish that Draco strains to hear, because he wants to remember _everything_ about Harry in this moment. The insane mop of dark hair falling over his sweat-sheened, handsome face, the furrow between his eyes that for once has nothing to do with worry and everything to do with clinging to the last vestiges of control, the flick of his tongue over parted lips as he babbles with each thrust, all of it, because it's all because of _Draco_, and he never wants to let it go.

Unable to control his need any longer, he unwinds the fingers of one hand from the sheets and grips at the forearm of the hand Harry has pressed to his chest, gently urging it lower until he feels Harry's palm slide over the head of his cock and down its length with maddening slowness before he wraps his fingers around Draco and begins to stroke. Harry flicks his eyes away from Draco's for just a second, looking down at his hand around Draco's cock and Draco's fingers gripping his wrist and he whimpers.

His eyes fly back up to meet Draco's as he pants, "Don't...want to wait...any longer."

The words are as beautiful now as they were moments before, filling Draco with lust and ecstasy and something else as he watches Harry fall apart over him, body beginning to shudder as he thrusts and strokes.

"Then don't," Draco gasps out and arches up against Harry's hand, feeling his own muscles spasm and shudder as he comes. Harry cries out brokenly and follows Draco's orgasm with his own, still looking down with wide, dilated eyes and dragging Draco's release from his cock with fingers that are holding onto Draco like a lifeline.

Harry pants and shivers, jerkily thrusting as he rides out his orgasm, eyes still open and trained on Draco, and Draco feels raw and bare in a way that transcends their nakedness. Harry stills, panting and sagging against Draco's knees and loosening his grip on Draco's cock. Draco realises he's still clutching Harry's wrist and pries his fingers away to slide them shakily up his arm and shoulder to rest against his cheek in a request for the comforting gesture he knows Harry will offer without thought. Harry presses into Draco's palm, still gasping, and then turns his head as Draco knew he would, first licking and then kissing the offered hand.

Draco hums contentedly, blinking against the haze settling over him, then sighs as Harry finally slumps down into the pillows next to him. They both shiver as Harry whispers a cleaning spell before laying his head against Draco's chest and draping warm limbs over Draco's. Another spell drags the covers over them as the air in the room breezes over the sweat coating each of them.

Draco laughs lazily. "We're supposed to meet Hermione and Ron for dinner, not fall asleep." Even as the words escape his lips he feels the pull of a post-sex nap wash over him.

"Mmmmm," Harry murmurs and presses a kiss to Draco's sternum. "They're grown-ups, they can manage to order a proper meal without us, don't you think?"

"That's debatable," Draco snorts, stretching, but there's no malice in his voice. In truth, there's nothing he'd like better than to stay right here, curled up with Harry until morning. Although his stomach has other ideas apparently, and it lets out a particularly spectacular growl.

Harry chuckles, his breath tickling Draco's skin.

"Pity. You know, I imagine the restaurant here delivers. We wouldn't even have to get dressed..."

Draco swats at Harry's shoulder. "Tease."

At that precise moment, the Muggle telephone next to the bed trills loudly, and Draco glares at it, startled.

"You have to _answer_ it to make it stop doing that, Draco," Harry says, then yelps as Draco flicks a finger against his ear lobe.

Draco fumbles blindly at the table next to the bed, unwilling in spite of his renewed teasing to displace Harry, because _this_ is another thing Draco has already added to his _I could get used to this_ list.

"Yes?" Draco barks into the receiver when he finally finds it and lifts it to his ear.

"Listen mate," Ron's voice floats into his ear, and Draco cringes as he hears Hermione giggling in the background. At least Harry has the decency to chuckle quietly, not quite recovered from laughing at Draco's flailing reaches that knocked everything else from the bed table in his efforts to answer the call. "If it's not too much trouble, we're, um, feeling a bit tired. Alright with you if we just meet for breakfast in the morning?"

Draco rolls his eyes and smiles. Apparently their friends are similarly preoccupied, and though he shudders a bit as he always does at the thought, mostly out of habit to get under their skin when they're around, he can't say he minds in the slightest. In fact, as he feels Harry's lips lazily grazing one of his nipples, he can't even find a witty retort.

"Fine, Weasley," he says, trying to keep his voice even in spite of the lovely, ticklish feeling from Harry's tongue on his skin. "See you at breakfast."

He's about to yank the receiver hard enough to disconnect the telephone completely when Harry reaches up to take it from his hand. Disappointed as he is when Harry lifts his head after one last lick over the peaked flesh on his chest, Draco can't bring himself to complain much when Harry starts speaking into the receiver with requests for enough food and wine to sustain them for a week - not that Draco minds, since he's both famished and perfectly happy to stay here for that long.

Harry stretches as he replaces the receiver and rolls onto his back.

"If they aren't dressing for supper, I don't see why we should," he says. "I do love it when a plan falls into place without any effort on my part." He grins at Draco as he lifts his arms over his head and arches in a motion that puts Draco in mind of a cat stretching before a fire. He runs a finger across a jutting hipbone and up over Harry's belly and chest and neck before touching it gently to Harry's lips. Harry nips at it with a shiver, and Draco smirks at the trail of gooseflesh his touch leaves in its wake.

"How very Slytherin of you," Draco says, and Harry hums, still stretching.

"Mmmm, I suppose the Sorting Hat might change its mind about me too if it could see me now," he says and sits up.

"If it's all the same to you, Harry, I'd just as soon no one from school or anywhere else on earth could see you right now." Draco says, watching Harry swing his legs off the bed and stand.

Harry turns and looks at Draco, a wounded expression creeping over his face. Draco rolls his eyes as much at his own stupid choice of words as at Harry's sensitivity.

"That's not what I meant, you needn't get all in a twist," Draco says, though he tries to keep his tone gentle. He isn't trying to pick a fight, and he still has to remind himself he hasn't been trading barbs with Harry for five years.

"I simply meant I'd rather no one _else_ sees you like _this_," he gestures at Harry's naked body, taking an extra moment to flick appreciative eyes over the man in front of him. Harry is beautiful, and he isn't sharing. "I've changed a lot since we last knew one another, but I still don't share what's mine."

His mouth goes dry as soon as the last words leave his lips. _Merlin_, he thinks as his heart starts to pound again, _why does he have such an effect on me?_

Harry turns back so he's staring down at Draco on the bed, eyes wide. "Yours, Draco?" He whispers the words and Draco wants to hex himself. Harry slides one knee and then the other up onto the bed so he's kneeling over Draco where he sits. "Is that what I am?"

Unable to breathe, Draco can only stare up into Harry's face for a long minute before he finds his voice, doing all he can to hold it steady in spite of his nerves. There's no going back now, he supposes, so there's nothing for it but to press on.

"Only if you want to be," Draco says quietly, and it's all he can do not to drop Harry's gaze. If he thought Harry's eyes intense during sex, he doesn't have words for the fire in them now.

"Do you want me to be?" Harry asks, matching Draco's quiet tone and shuffling closer.

Draco picks up Harry's palm from his side and presses it to his lips, grounding himself in the familiar, comforting gesture before he whispers, "Yes."

Harry nods once and then ducks his head to steal what little breath Draco has in him with a hot, slow, wet kiss full of whimpers and moans. Harry's fingers wind through Draco's hair to press their lips more tightly together before he pulls away and drags his hands down Draco's cheeks.

"Good," he pants as he sits back on his heels, still perched above Draco. He smiles and Draco's chest unclenches, and happiness washes over the places that were only seconds before taut and raw with fear. "That's what I want, too."

Draco grins up at him, knowing he looks so bloody _happy_ that he thinks the Sorting Hat might give him the boot once it finished with Harry if it was here. Harry snorts through his own smile.

"Leave it to me to get something like that out of you because I took a bit of snark the wrong way." He says, and Draco laughs with him.

"Indeed. Leave it to me to say something like that to cover up something thoughtless." They both laugh again, this time chuckling against one another's parted lips as they kiss again.

No one says _I'm sorry_, and yet Draco thinks that might have been one of the best apologies he's ever been a part of. It's good to be reminded that he and Harry have a lot to learn about one another, and even better to realise they're both invested enough to do just that.

A knock at the door signals the arrival of supper, and Draco looks down at himself and Harry, both still completely naked, then back up at Harry with a smirk. Harry rolls his eyes and yanks the sheet from where it's tucked into the bottom of the mattress and drapes it around his waist, leaving Draco uncovered on the bed as he moves to the door. Draco snorts and scrambles inelegantly from the bed to the bathroom in search of a towel or something to hide behind at the same moment Harry opens the door to the very great surprise of the unsuspecting waiter.

"You can come out now," Harry says a few minutes later, letting the door close and bringing the spicy, steamy smell of their food into the room in waves that make Draco's mouth water.

When he peeks out from around the bathroom door - because he half-expects to still see the poor man who'd brought their tray - his mouth waters for a different reason. Harry is sprawled back across the bed, his sheet discarded, surrounded by food that he has begun eating in a manner that makes Draco uncertain if he wants the food or if he'd prefer to just skip to _dessert_. He wastes no time crossing the room to slide across the rumpled sheets to Harry's side. Harry smirks, knowing full well the impact he's having on Draco, then holds out a bite of whatever he's eating in fingers he's bathed in a steaming bowl of water on the tray, leaving his skin smelling of lemons behind the spice of the bite he holds out.

Despite his weaknesses for both good sex and good food, Draco has rarely been interested in mixing the two, so he's a little surprised at the strength of his body's reaction to Harry's overtly wanton gesture. That said, even he can't deny his need to eat as he plucks the bit from Harry's fingers with his teeth and fairly groans at the flavor. He can _almost_ ignore the very handsome, very naked Harry Potter sitting with his thigh pressed against his own, except that the same Harry Potter seems to find great amusement in watching Draco eat like he hasn't seen food in a week.

"Why do you insist upon watching everything I put in my mouth, Potter?" He snaps, catching Harry smiling at him as he scoops up a bite of some sort of spicy leafy vegetable, then mentally slaps himself for the stupidity of _that_ statement as well, though for different reasons.

"I rather like watching you put things in your mouth, Malfoy," Harry says, the familiar sound of their surnames making both snicker.

It seems nothing is the same anymore, when even the old habits meant to wound do nothing more than bring out teasing smiles. Draco lets out a long-suffering sigh for effect.

"Yes, I'm certain you do, but if you don't stop watching me eat, I might never let you watch me put anything _else_ in my mouth again." He flicks his eyes over Harry's naked body to drive his point home and is rewarded with a flush for his trouble, though Harry's face remains amused.

"Somehow I think that's a threat you'd have a hard time carrying out, Malfoy," he says smiling and returning his attention to his supper.

Harry still watches Draco eat, and Draco still pulls faces and emits heavy sighs he doesn't really mean, and they laugh easily as they methodically work through plate after plate of spiced meats and steamed vegetables and Draco realises just how hungry he's been all day. When at last he's had his fill and Harry has stopped eating altogether in favour of just watching Draco, he leans back against the headboard for a moment, eyes closed, savouring the lingering tastes on his tongue.

"I used to watch you eat all the time," Harry says, and Draco knows he's talking about their sixth year at Hogwarts when Harry watched everything Draco did and Draco knew it. "Shame I never found it quite so attractive then. Might have saved us a good deal of trouble, hm?"

Harry trails fingers over Draco's scars in a gesture that's becoming as familiar as the kisses to his palms and the licks to the ink-darkened skin on his forearm, but there is no apology in the touch this time, merely speculation.

"I imagine if one of us had tried to get anywhere near _this_," Draco gestures between them with an arched eyebrow and a meaningful glance down at Harry's naked torso that draws a chuckle from Harry, "he'd have ended up hexed into oblivion."

"Pity," Harry says, nodding his agreement as he stands and groans and puts out a hand to help Draco up. "Imagine just how much easier it all might have been if we were too distracted to be concerned with hexes and schemes, hm? Then again, if I'd had you here," he pulls Draco against him so their bodies are flush and their lips are nearly touching, "I might never have left to search for the Horcruxes or defeated Voldemort."

Draco snorts and nips at Harry's bottom lip with his teeth. "I don't think I'm as distracting as all that. But I can't say I'd have minded spending all that time hiding away with you instead of...well, instead of being where I was."

He smiles, because he doesn't want to hear the apology he knows is on the tip Harry's tongue and he hopes that his smile will silence it. That was a lifetime ago for Draco, for all of them, and he doesn't blame Harry for a moment of the year he was little more than a prisoner in his own childhood home. He doesn't blame anyone, not anymore. The only people responsible are dead or in Azkaban, punishments Draco knows they deserved and doesn't grieve for.

"Besides," he says, "I was a rotten prat at school, and I very likely would have arsed the whole thing up before we even had a chance."

The smile Draco was waiting for creeps across Harry's lips. "I won't argue with that," Harry says. "Though I'd have made a go of cocking things up myself. I was a bit of a stalker. Might have been a bit suffocating after a while, hm?"

Draco laughs. "See, it's best that we didn't end up together at school. Those two little tossers would have made a spectacular mess of everything before they knew what hit them."

"Mmmm," Harry agrees and presses his lips to Draco's. "Want to go try out that tub? I think it's plenty big enough for the both of us, and I could do with a soak."

Draco's own muscles are weary, still tired and sore from the lingering effects of the climb compounded by an ache he wouldn't give up for anything that he can attribute entirely to time very well spent with Harry. He nods gratefully and follows Harry into the spacious bathroom, looking with great anticipation at the tub Harry is begins to fill with steaming hot water. Or maybe with more than just anticipation, because Harry quirks an eyebrow at him and laughs.

"I see the mountain has increased your appreciation for hot water, hm?" He says, watching Draco perch on the side of the tub.

He feels like a child waiting for a present, he's so giddy, but he tries to moderate his expression.

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," he says, trying to suppress a smile. "Good hygiene is very important, Harry, despite what you Gryffindors might think. I know you never learned to use a _comb_, but surely you all bathed at least once a month."

Harry pulls a face at him, but Draco is overcome by just how good the hot water feels as it slips over his skin when he slides into the tub. He groans and lets his head fall back against the cool porcelain, relishing the steam and warmth. At least for a moment, until he feels a spray of water shoot up in his face and he opens one dripping eye to glare at Harry.

"What?" Harry says smirking. "If you keep making those sounds I'm going to get an inferiority complex. The Boy Who Lived outperformed by a tub full of hot water. How will I ever live it down?"

Draco snorts, supposing that perhaps he might have been a little dramatic, but he _is_ a Malfoy, even if he's a changed one. "You'll just have to work harder, won't you?" He asks, and Harry smiles.

"I'm sure I have a trick or two you haven't seen yet, Malfoy," he says as he slides into the tub, and Draco notes the quiet sigh of satisfaction that escapes his lips with smugness.

_Dramatic indeed. Really. _

He huffs, then promptly forgets why as Harry slides to lean back against Draco's chest, arms around Draco's bent knees to lever himself against the slippery floor of the tub. There is something about the way Harry _fits_ there that makes Draco's heart twist, and he slides his arms down to trail wet fingers over Harry's chest.

Harry tips his head back onto Draco's shoulder, humming quietly at Draco's absent caresses, and they sit in relative silence for a while, allowing the warmth and comfort of the water and the company and the day's revelations to wash away all the talking and thinking and worrying of recent days.

"I do _own_ a comb, you know," Harry says suddenly, and Draco has to drag himself from a steam- and Harry-induced stupor to register his words.

"Ah, and there it is, your great secret is out. I can see the headlines now. _Saviour of Wizarding World's Deepest Secret Exposed: He DOES own a comb!"_

Harry flicks more water at his face, earning a splash back from Draco for his trouble.

"I just meant I do own one, it just," he reaches up to drag a hand through already-wild hair sheepishly, "doesn't really do much good. But if it bothers you..."

Draco chuckles, lifting his own hand to smooth over Harry's hair and pressing a kiss to the side of his head.

"After all these years, you still haven't figured out that sometimes I just like to say things to wind you up, have you?" Harry snorts, but Draco feels him relax his body back into Draco's a bit farther.

He's amused, he thinks, at Harry's endearing insecurity over something that really doesn't matter a bit, and the offer to - well, Draco doesn't know _what_ Harry thinks he can do about this mess. He may have defeated the most powerful evil wizard of their time, but he's not sure that means Harry could tame the bird's nest on his head. Then again, it's a part of him, and Draco's not sure he'd _want_ it tamed.

"Besides," he murmurs, still stroking soft, dark hair idly, "it suits you."

Harry's laughter is soft and genuine, and his smile is pleased, and Draco can't help the small surge of_ something_ that he feels at the knowledge that that laughter and that smile is for _him_.

"You know, I could get used to this version of you that says nice things to me even if you do say them right after you say something to try to get under my skin," Harry says, reaching through the water to wrap his fingers around Draco's and lifting their twined hands to study them in the steam.

"Merlin, Harry, I'm not twelve anymore you know," Draco says. "I suppose if I'd known then what I know now, I might have spent less time trying to hex you. Or insult you." He smirks. "Then again, perhaps not. It isn't as though you had plaits in your hair to pull or a skirt to flip up, and at twelve I didn't know any other way to tell someone I liked them, did I?"

"Malfoy, if you don't stop picturing me in a skirt right this second, I'll teach you a hex or two even you Slytherin lot didn't know about!" Harry's words are threatening, but his tone is shaking with amusement.

Harry digs an elbow into Draco's ribs and he yelps, but it doesn't stop his chuckling, and he feels Harry's body shaking right along with him. He wraps his arms tightly around Harry now, burying his nose in the steamy, soft skin at the crook of his neck and breathes in slowly, smile still playing across his lips.

"I've learned a thing or two in five years," he murmurs. "There are people I never managed a kind word for, and now I won't get that chance. I don't mean to live that way any longer."

Harry reaches dripping fingers up to drag through Draco's hair, tipping his head to bring their lips together in a kiss that is somehow a better salve for the raw, emotional wounds from days long past that Draco thinks may never heal than any consolation or comforting word he's ever received. When Harry pulls away, keeping his hand in Draco's hair so their eyes are locked, he's still smiling, and Draco is still feeling that _something _at yet another smile that is all his.

"Just don't stop trying to wind me up altogether, or I'll think there's something wrong with you." Harry says, and Draco flicks more water in his face, though their proximity means he gets himself almost as much and they splutter and laugh and kiss again, Harry's arms wrapping awkwardly back around Draco's neck to pull him close, and there is nothing about this that Draco _doesn't_ plan to get very used to indeed.


	15. Chapter Fourteen

_And so we reach the end of the trip to Africa and the end of this story. I hope you've enjoyed it, I certainly loved writing it. Thank you for every alert, comment, and PM; I've been humbled by your kind words. I'm working on a follow-up to this story, and will begin posting as soon as I'm far enough ahead to guarantee a consistent posting schedule. Shouldn't be too long now. Thank you all for reading – and enjoy!_

_Some of the anecdotal details contained in this story are mine, though if you take the path to the top of Africa or into the Ngorongoro Crater, your mileage may vary. All fictional elements referred to herein belong to their respective owners. Harry Potter is Rowling's. No copyright infringement intended.

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For a man who hasn't slept especially _well_ since he was too young to know that people slept poorly because their minds were terrible, frightening places, Draco knows he will have no trouble slipping into a dreamless sleep when they finally emerge from the bath. With skin soft and warm and wrinkled, and muscles relaxed from sex and hot water and softly spoken promises, they tumble into bed, their supper dishes vanished and the gauzy netting pulled down around them in a way that puts Draco in mind of an iridescent tent.

Harry smiles when Draco says as much.

"I think you've got a thing for tents," he murmurs, curling around Draco's back so their bodies are pressed flush together.

Draco reaches back to pull Harry's arm around him, linking their fingers against his chest. He's never minded sleeping in the same bed with someone else, but he's also never been much of a cuddler. Past lovers could testify that he's not above a frankly-delivered "that is your side and this is mine, and I'd appreciate it if you'd keep that in mind" speech. Not terribly romantic, he knows, but it was better than tossing them out.

But, as he's grown to expect, this - _Harry_ - is different. He can't seem to get enough of the man. He knows if he says as much to anyone, they'll remind him that he's 23 years old, so of course he can't get enough, but it isn't just the sex. It's everything. It's talking, but also sitting in silence. It's Harry's house and his chair and his books, and it's his silly Muggle tent (for which Draco really _does_ have a _thing_). And it's cuddling, and it feels bloody _marvelous_.

"Perhaps," Draco says drowsily, turning his head slightly to look up at the pale, floating material that's reflecting moonlight almost as bright as the sun. They'd watched the last bit of light fade from the sky while they were still in the tub, but the moon brought a new batch of shadows to the room, making everything in its path glow as bright as a Patronus.

"Although," he goes on, humming as Harry kisses the line from his ear down to the base of his neck before burrowing his face there with a sigh, "I've been in tents before, and I never found them as enjoyable as I have in recent days. Something about the company, I suppose."

Draco feels Harry's mouth curve into a smile at his neck and he burrows into the pillow and closes his eyes. He's tired and sated and happy, and for once he's not looking for anything scathing or sharp to say. He thinks maybe he _does_ have a thing for tents, as long as Harry's in them, because there's something comforting about the closeness of the fabric and the illusion of being closed in without the hard barriers of walls.

Or maybe he just has a thing for being wherever Harry is, and as he drifts off to sleep, he thinks that's alright too.

~.~.~.~.~  
Draco awakens several hours later, the comforting warmth that was wrapped around him gone and the pillow next to him empty. He rolls over to face the window, already half-expecting what he sees.

Harry sits outside on one of the chaise lounges on the balcony. He's wrapped in a blanket from the bed and the night air is warm, but his knees are drawn up and he's resting his chin on them, curled into a ball as though chilled. He gazes out over the moonlit plain below, but Draco would bet a tidy sum he's not actually _looking_ at anything in particular.

He sits there a while, watching Harry quietly, trying to decide if he should intrude on the other man's solitude or if he's just being ridiculous. Harry's been alone for a long time, he reasons, and perhaps he just needs some space. Then again, he himself has been alone a long time, and of all the things he's craved in his life, solitude hasn't been one of them in a very long time.

With that thought in mind, he drags himself from the bed, pulling the sheet around himself and stepping out onto the balcony.

"Can't sleep?" He address Harry softly, standing just outside the doorway.

Harry looks up at him and smiles gently, and Draco breathes a tiny sigh of relief when he doesn't see even a flicker of irritation at his intrusion.

"I'm sorry I woke you," he says and motions for Draco to sit with him, which prompts a bigger sigh of relief, and Draco curses himself for his foolishness.

"You didn't," Draco replies as he shuffles to sit in the space between Harry's drawn-up knees. "Or maybe you did, but only because I noticed you weren't there."

Harry pulls Draco to sit back against his chest and wraps his comforter around them both. Harry is warm and the air is soothing, and Draco thinks he just might fall back to sleep right here. But then again, if sleep was what Harry wanted, he probably would have stayed in bed. Draco drags his eyes open, though he does wriggle back against Harry just a little tighter.

"You didn't answer my question," he says, keeping his voice light. "Couldn't sleep?"

He knows the answer, but he has to give Harry an opening. Harry sighs and pulls the comforter closer around them.

"It was the tent thing," he says finally. "After you went to sleep, I kept thinking about tents. All the tents I've been in for so long, even before I left. And the tents gave way to mountains and Merlin, Draco, I haven't lived _inside_ for any real period of time since I was seventeen!"

Draco twists so that he's sprawled sideways, looking up at Harry with a mixture of confusion and concern.

"Sorry, that didn't make much sense, I know," Harry goes on, reaching up to swipe a hand across his face tiredly. "It's just...look, when we left to find the Horcruxes, we mostly slept in the tent Hermione brought along, right? And then I left not long after that, and to be honest, I spent more nights sleeping outside or in a tent than I ever did in an inn until I started climbing. And once I started that, well…you know."

"Tents," Draco says, understanding starting to creep in around the edges of sleepy confusion.

"Tents," Harry confirms. "Only it isn't just the tent, it's the rest of it. The mountain and the stars and the quiet..."

"Harry," Draco begins as Harry trails off, and he gulps as he chokes out the next words. "If you've changed your mind..."

"I haven't, and don't even consider telling me it's okay if I have, because it isn't." Harry says fiercely. "I...it's been a while since I've been afraid of anything, Draco. I told you I wanted the anonymity of climbing, and that was true. I wasn't afraid of dying up there, at least not at first. It didn't make me a better climber, oddly. Being fearless is stupid on a mountain, and it's what gets a lot of us killed.

"I'm still not afraid, but I respect the elements. I know what can happen up there. I knew it before Miles even, though that pretty much drove it all home."

Draco reaches up to wrap his hands around Harry's forearms where they're once again wrapped around Draco's body. The ache in his chest for the loss Harry suffered will never go away, even though he knows that without it, they wouldn't be here.

"The last time I was really afraid of anything was at your trial, actually," Harry goes on. "I was afraid it wouldn't be enough, what I said, and that they'd send you to Azkaban anyway."

Draco draws in a shaky breath. It was a bit like seeing his name in Harry's scrawled script on the letter he'd left behind, he thought, knowing those awful days had affected Harry before they were even speaking to one another. That Harry had cared enough to be afraid for him, when he could have stood aside and sent Draco and his mother off to prison with the rest of the Death Eaters.

"I wasn't ever scared once I left, not really. I had some harried moments on a few mountains, but nothing like the fear of failing against Voldemort, or of not being able to save the people who needed it most."

Draco knows that last line is meant for him, and he fights down the irrational urge to cry, opting instead to let Harry keep talking, because they're getting to something here, he knows it.

"But last week when you three walked into my office, I was completely fucking terrified. I didn't know what you'd say or what they'd say, or why _you_ were there at all, and I was scared to death. And I know, it all turned out far better than even I could have expected, so you don't have to remind me."

Draco tightens his hands on Harry's arms and lets out a dry laugh.

"I know I don't have to," he says, "but I'm going to anyway, because I think we've earned the right to all the reminding we can get."

Harry squeezes back, drawing Draco closer in his arms.

"The thing is, I'm afraid, Draco. I'm afraid of going back and never seeing _this_," he gestures with his chin at the crater floor below, "again. I'm afraid of the night sky in London because I won't be able to see the stars through the light, and I'm afraid of the noise and the people, whether they want anything from me or not."

"Harry," Draco tries to interrupt, "I told you we'd-"

"I know, it's stupid, because you said we'd come back and I believe you." Harry rushes on as he cuts Draco off. "I do. But this is what being afraid does to me, don't you see? And what will I do? And what if we get back and you decide you're tired of me because here you needed me, but there you have a life and maybe there won't be room for me in it?"

Draco expected this - or something like it - before they returned to London, but the words don't twist his heart any less just because he knew they were coming. He pries Harry's arms from around his chest and stands, taking care to keep a hand on Harry's knee the whole time so as not to give even the slightest impression that he's leaving. When he sits again, he's turned around and is cross-legged between Harry's knees, looking straight into worried green eyes that gleam in the moonlight. He reaches up and smoothes the worried lines on Harry's forehead and takes a deep breath.

"I learned a long time ago that telling someone there's nothing to be afraid of is a lie," Draco says softly. "I think I've been afraid of _something_ my entire life. My father, the weight of the Malfoy name, the Dark Lord. You. Always something, for as long as I can remember.

"About the same time you were leaving Grimmauld Place, I was afraid my life was over. Then, after you left that letter and Hermione came and found me, I was afraid I'd been given a second chance and that I'd fuck it up. I was afraid I'd let them down, or that they wouldn't want me to stay. Then after a while, I was afraid they'd make me leave after we didn't find you. But for the first time in a long time, I had something worth being afraid of losing, do you see? I was afraid they'd send me away and I'd be back where I started, except knowing I'd lost something in the mix.

"Maybe you're afraid because you've been on your own for so long, and now you won't be any longer - and you _won't be_, Harry, alright?"

Harry sighs, then nods when he figures out Draco isn't going to go on until he gets some sort of confirmation that Harry's listening.

"As for all that," Draco jerks his head behind him, "you _will_ miss it. Merlin, _I'll_ miss it, and I've only been here a week. I meant what I said, though. We'll come back. If you hate London after a week, we'll come back in two. I'm not going to make you do anything that will drive you away again, okay?"

He says that last quietly, hoping the waver in his voice tells Harry he's not the only one who's scared about what will happen when they leave Africa behind, because he thinks if he says the words aloud, he might just decide they should stay, and that won't accomplish anything. But he won't be the reason Harry leaves again, not for anything. Harry draws in his own shaky breath.

"Okay," he says, closing his eyes for a moment, and Draco sees the resolute determination of the boy he used to know wash over his face. "Okay. I'm sorry, really, I know I'm making a lot of this. I'm not used to having anyone to talk to really. Bit out of practise." He flashes a hopeful half-smile at Draco, who smiles back in relief.

There's something about these kinds of conversations, something about the nervous energy and fear and anxiety that puts Draco in mind of a storm. They start out so calmly, and then the moment the real crux of the matter comes out, it's like that moment where all hell breaks loose and the wind whips and the rain comes down in lightning-bright sheets, and it seems like the chaos might go on forever. But in a moment, the madness subsides and although the rain still falls and the wind still blows, the elements become predictable.

He feels like he's watching the chaos slide away as the smile spreads softly across Harry's face, and though he knows they aren't out of the storm, he's a little less wary.

"I don't know that you are," he says thoughtfully. "Making too much of this, I mean. I expect going back will be hard for you. I hope to be able to make it a little less difficult, but I'm not kidding myself into thinking we'll go back and it will be as though you never left."

To Draco's great surprise, Harry snorts.

"Don't think we want things to be just like they were when I left, do we?" He leans in to kiss Draco softly, and Draco is inclined to agree that he's much happier with things as they are right this second.

When he pulls away, Draco rises inelegantly to his knees and shuffles to turn around again. He's tired, even more now than when he came out here to begin with, but there's magic in the moonlight just as there was on the mountain, and he's not ready to go inside just yet. He pulls a face at Harry's amused expression and settles back down against his chest, drawing Harry's arms back around him and the soft white bedding around them both. Harry settles his chin on Draco's shoulder and sighs.

"Will they forgive me, do you think?" Harry asks quietly.

Draco knows instinctively who Harry means, because he thinks after all this time Harry doesn't really care if the Ministry or the press or the Wizarding world at large will offer him absolution he doesn't really need for doing something he had every right to do.

"Molly will, though she'll shout for a while first. She was fairly devastated when you left. Arthur and George will follow Molly's lead, though I think George will just be happy to have you _back_." Draco is quiet for a moment, ticking through the people who have come into his life as a result of Harry leaving theirs. It's surreal, really, the almost-family he's built out of the almost-family Harry left behind.

"Ginny will be...relieved. Eventually." He says this thoughtfully, trying to find the right words. "She was hurt too, but from what everyone told me, that was over before you left?"

Harry nods against Draco's neck.

"I realised I really did care about her, but there wasn't anything _there_." He says, his voice muffled against Draco's shoulder. "I didn't know why yet, not really. I suspected, I guess, but I didn't know for sure."

Draco nods. Ginny had said as much once, saying that kissing Harry had always been a little like flying on a child's broom spelled to stay low to the ground and limit speed. It was still _flying_, and therefore a bit brilliant on its own merit, but lacked the thrill of a proper go around the Quidditch pitch.

Ginny is married to Oliver Wood now, and apparently enjoying all the proper go-arounds she can handle, if the litter of children they have in tow at every family gathering is any indication.

"She's married now," Draco says, "so I think that's in your favour."

"To Wood, I know," Harry says, and Draco twists his head to peer at him, surprised. "What? I left, I didn't forget how to read the newspaper. I still cared about them. I tried not to pay attention, but I couldn't help myself. I'm glad for her though, for both of them."

"Mmmm," Draco murmurs his agreement, still thinking through the faces of the people who had become his friends. It's funny, now he thinks on it. The lot of them will toss aside their hurt and anger much faster than he might have thought possible five years ago, just because they'll be pleased to see Harry again. Five years ago, Draco wouldn't have thought such forgiveness existed anywhere, for anyone.

Then again, he knows now that Harry's testimony at his trial was perhaps more forgiveness than he or anyone on earth deserved, then or now, and he also knows that no one tried to stop Harry from giving it. Absolution, it seemed, ran deep among the former members of the Order. He hopes for Harry's sake it still does, though he has little doubt they'll all come around without much coaxing. Except…

"There will be the issue of Teddy," he says, not wanting to mention the boy, but not seeing a way around it. Harry tenses behind him.

"How…how is he?" Harry finally asks.

"He's…well, he's wonderful, actually. Aunt Andromeda has done wonders with him, and he spends a great deal of time with the Weasley children, so we see a lot of him. He doesn't know you, not really. No one quite knew how to-"

"Tell a little boy his godfather abandoned him?" Harry asks bitterly, and Draco sighs. "No, I shouldn't think anyone would."

"Harry, he's just a boy. You have his whole life to make it up to him, and I'll help you with Andromeda if it's what you want. She loves Teddy, she only wants what's best for him. If you mean to stay in his life, she'll come 'round eventually."

He feels Harry relax the tiniest bit and once again the mental picture of a storm racing over the land floats through his mind. The worst has passed for now, but Draco suspects it will be back before it's over.

"Seems strange," Harry says after a moment. "I'm going back to the people _I_ more or less grew up with, and I'm doing it hiding behind Draco Malfoy's coattails, because somehow now they're more likely to welcome me back if _you_ put in a good word."

Draco chuckles in spite of himself. "Harry, first of all, it's too bloody hot to leave here in anything that has _coattails_, and I wouldn't let you hide behind them anyway. Secondly, if you'll notice, I've turned into quite the sap recently, much to my very great dismay." Harry laughs. "I'm certain the last time we saw one another, that was not one of the many words you or anyone else would have used to describe me. So I must assume that it's your lot that have turned me soft."

He's having trouble controlling the laughter in his own voice, and he can still feel Harry's body shaking in silent mirth, and the foolish teasing feels _good_.

"My lot?" Harry says teasingly. "Aren't they _your_ lot now?"

Draco shakes his head and tips his face back to look into Harry's. The angle is awkward, but the gleam in Harry's eyes is amused, and another surge of relief rushes over Draco, because he thinks the storm has subsided for the night.

"I suppose," Draco says, voice suddenly soft, because the thought that strikes him seems somehow deserving of a bit reverence, "they're really _our_ lot, aren't they?"

Harry's expression doesn't change, but Draco feels the arms around him tighten, and he lets every muscle relax so he can sink into the embrace. Harry ducks his head to bring their lips together in a warm, soft, slow kiss that still manages to leave Draco breathless when it ends, and he's half-amused and half-irritated to find himself getting aroused. Amusement wins out when he realises he's not the only one, owing to the press of his back between Harry's legs, and he chuckles again. He wonders idly when the last time was that he's laughed so much as in the past few days, and he thinks maybe the answer is never, and _laughing with Harry_ gets put on the things-to-get-used-to-immediately list.

"Merlin, we're like a couple of randy teenagers," Harry snorts, clearly on the same line of thought as Draco.

Draco grins and nods, and then shrugs, because he really doesn't care. He arches his back to press harder against Harry's erection and his grin shifts to a smirk when Harry groans. Because fuck it, he's waited his whole life to feel like this, to _want_ like this, and he'll be damned if he's going to worry about whether the rest of the world would look down upon either of them for it. Not that he plans to share a single detail about his suddenly very active, very satisfying sex life with the rest of the world anyway.

He turns in Harry's grasp slightly and lifts his chin for another kiss, not bothering with slow this time, and reaches up to curl fingers around the back of Harry's neck to pull him closer in a hot, messy tangle of lips and tongues.

"Back to bed?" Harry gasps against his mouth and letting his fingers trail down Draco's chest and abdomen, running teasing circles over the skin below his navel.

Draco is about to nod, then thinks better of it, because there won't be moonlit balconies in London, and there's no reason to leave this one while they have it. He shakes his head instead and reaches down to grasp Harry's cock, stroking it firmly and grinning smugly as Harry's eyelids flutter over glazed eyes.

"Here," he whispers, and kisses Harry again, and Harry slides his hand down over Draco's cock and matches Draco's strokes with his own until they're both whispering muttered curses into each other's mouths and bucking hips and arching backs and coming almost together.

When he catches his breath, Draco looks up at Harry, who whispers a now-familiar cleaning spell and then a second one Draco's never heard. At his quirked eyebrow, Harry grins.

"Bug repellent charm," he says, shrugging and pulling the linens up around them more tightly and settling back against the cushions of the chaise. "Unless you want to go back inside to sleep? You didn't seem too interested in going back inside before..."

Before he can finish, Draco slides back against Harry's chest, leaning his head into the crook under Harry's chin. "No," he says, sighing contentedly. "Here."

He feels Harry's chest vibrate with a chuckle. "Thought so." Harry swipes a hand through Draco's hair and follows it with a press of lips to his temple.

Draco feels his eyes start to close again, but drags them back open to look up at Harry.

"I don't want to sleep unless you do," he says quietly. He doesn't know why he says it, but he knows as sure as he's breathing that he means it. He thinks maybe it's because it was Harry being awake that brought him out here to begin with, and that the only way he'll _know_ that the storm in Harry's head is over at least for tonight is to see him sleep. He yawns as he says it, and curses himself.

"Not sure it matters if you want to or not," Harry teases.

Draco twists his head around to glare at him, but the effect is spoiled by another yawn, and even Draco has to give in and smile.

"I can't promise I'll sleep, Draco," Harry says after a moment and once Draco has settled back against his chest. "It's sort of like what you said about people telling me there's nothing to be afraid of is a lie. Before this week, I could probably have counted the number of good nights' sleep I've had on two hands since...well since before Miles died, although his death really wasn't anything to do with when I stopped sleeping well."

Harry's voice is soft and the vibrations in his chest that accompany his words hum against the skin on Draco's back.

"For a long time, I liked climbing for another reason, one I think you'll understand with no explanation at all." Harry goes on. "It made me so tired I slept without dreams."

Draco nods. He knows exactly what Harry means, if the last week has been any indication. Were it not for Weasley's snoring and the promise of Harry's fire, Draco thinks he would have slept more over the course of his nights on the mountain than he has all year. Granted, he did have nightmares the one night, the first time he sat out in the darkness with Harry, but it was to be expected after opening the door to topics Draco usually tries very hard to avoid.

"But it doesn't anymore?" Draco asks, already knowing the answer.

"It's not so taxing as it once was, a fact I know you noticed from the number of times you stared daggers at me when we got up high."

Draco snorts. He knew he hadn't been especially subtle in his exasperation with how easy everything looked when Harry did it. Subtlety takes energy, and he hadn't any to spare on the mountain.

"Honestly, what did you expect?" Draco elbows Harry lightly in the ribs and is rewarded for his trouble with a nip of Harry's teeth to the soft spot between his neck and his shoulder. He yelps before going on. "You made it look so bloody _simple_, walking like you were strolling around in Diagon Alley and chattering away. Meanwhile the three of us couldn't catch a breath to save our lives, and I think I safely speak for Ron and Hermione as well when I say that I still have pain in muscles I never knew I had!"

Harry laughs. "It isn't as though it's always been _easy_, and I don't think I'd go so far as to say it is now, I've just been up there so many times that I've acclimated."

"So you don't get so tired anymore," Draco brings the conversation back to where it started, because he's still trying to figure out if he's going to sleep alone despite his best efforts to stay awake until Harry sleeps.

"No," Harry murmurs, "and besides, even exhaustion only keeps the nightmares at bay for so long."

Draco shudders, because he knows what Harry means by that, too. Then something else Harry said registers in his mind.

"You said _before this week_ you could count the number of good nights' sleep you've had," he says, and Harry tightens his arms around Draco's chest, answering the rest of Draco's question before he lets it spill from his lips, but he goes on anyway. "That implies you've slept this week then?"

His tone is light, but he reaches down to take one of Harry's hands and lift the open palm to his lips, because something about that gesture, one Draco can't ever remember using or receiving from anyone else, is the simplest way he has to tell Harry that he understands, that he's listening, that he's _here_ and he's not going anywhere.

"You know I have," Harry whispers, and plants a kiss over the same spot on Draco's neck that he'd nipped at a moment before, and Draco smiles a little at the admission. "And getting out of that bed alone wasn't exactly something I was keen on tonight, either, so you know." He pauses. "I didn't want to wake you, but I couldn't..."

"Couldn't?" Draco prompts with another stifled yawn.

Harry's voice gets even softer and his words are muffled against the skin at Draco's neck. "Couldn't stop myself wanting to reach out and touch you."

Draco is sure the grin will actually split his face in two, and he's also certain that Malfoys are most _definitely_ sentimental saps, or at least _he_ is, and he's about all that's left of the line anyway. So he allows the feeling of contented warmth that rushes over him with Harry's words to linger for a moment before he turns his head awkwardly and nudges at Harry's cheek with his nose until Harry turns from his burrow in Draco's shoulder and lets Draco kiss him soundly, because he thinks, not for the first time on this trip, that the words _thank you_ will never quite measure up to kissing Harry Potter.

"First of all," Draco gasps a little when they break apart, "though I do normally threaten anyone who disturbs my sleep with a series of particularly nasty hexes, I think I'll make an exception for you, especially if waking me up in the night results in anything vaguely resembling what's happened out here." Harry chuckles and Draco pulls a face at him before growing serious again.

"And secondly, Harry, I meant what I said about you not being alone anymore. If we're going to be in this together, then we're in _all_ of it together. The Weasleys, the Ministry, all of that, and the nightmares too, alright?"

"They're just dreams. I can handle them, Draco. I'm not a child." Draco rolls his eyes at Harry's words, because he's said them himself a thousand times and he knows just how hollow they really are.

"Of course you can," he says carefully, opting against the scathing remark about not being such a bloody stubborn Gryffindor idiot, because the magic of the moonlight is fragile, and he doesn't want to fracture it with unnecessary harshness. _Merlin, I really have turned into a sap_, he thinks. "But the point is, you don't have to _handle_ them anymore. That's the whole point of _this_, isn't it?"

He pulls their linked hands free from beneath the blanket and holds them up in front of Harry's face, waiting.

Harry sighs. "It's just been a long time," he says, and lowers their hands to wrap his arms around Draco again.

Draco nods and lets the tiniest bit of sarcasm filter back into his voice. "I know. That's why I plan to remind you with irritating frequency so that perhaps one of these days you might believe me."

Another snort, this time into his hair, tells Draco he hasn't rocked the boat any further, and he settles back into Harry's chest comfortably. He stares out over the moonlit plain, not really looking at anything and only half listening to the sounds of the leaves blowing in the breeze and calls of strange birds and other creatures that surround them as he rolls their conversation around in his head. He is by turns hopeful, content, and a bit disconcerted, because he really _believes_ what he's said to Harry about not being alone, and he has the feeling that he's looking in the face of something much bigger than even Harry's mountain.

"Harry?" He whispers after a while, and is met with silence. He notices then that the breath tickling his cheek and ear has become deep and rhythmic, signalling that, despite his protests, Harry has indeed fallen asleep. Draco smiles and closes his eyes, drifting off to the soothing sounds of Harry's breathing and the slow, faint beating of his heart and realises that this is something perhaps they both will get used to very quickly indeed.

~.~.~.~.~.~

Harry is still sleeping when Draco stretches awake, the morning sun shining bright and already hot over the crater, and Draco can't help but feel a little smug.

"Don't sleep, eh, Potter?" He mutters under his breath with a smile as he feels Harry sigh and then _snore_ into his shoulder. "Yes, I can see that." He can't suppress an eyeroll, but he's pleased, both that Harry is sleeping, and that it seems he's had a great deal to do with that. Then again, he supposes perhaps he ought to limit his satisfaction just a bit, considering he's had a pretty brilliant few nights' sleep himself, which is no small feat considering two of those were on the ground in a Muggle tent and one was in Harry's lap on a piece of outdoor furniture in the jungle.

Draco squints against the sun as he looks out over the grassy floor of the crater, not quite ready to give up his spot on that piece of outdoor furniture. Or, more likely, it's the lap in question he's not ready to leave, which makes him roll his eyes at himself again. _Sap._

They're heading into the crater today, as soon as they all manage to get out of their huts, which, Draco thinks, will be no easier a feat for Ron and Hermione than it will for Harry and him. He grins. Truth be told, his friends needed this trip more than he did, with the ever-present pressures of their jobs and their families and the worry he knows neither of them ever let go of for Harry, the fortnight away was long overdue and sorely needed. Though, as he idly brushes his fingers over Harry's arm where it's still wrapped around his waist, he's certain he's gotten more out of the whole experience than they have.

Knowing the danger in this particular line of thought as it relates to the likelihood that they'll never get to the lodge for their tour if he stays on it, Draco decides it's probably time to get up. Much to his very great satisfaction, he manages to extricate himself - a bit reluctantly, to be sure - from Harry's grasp without waking him to stumble into the shower.

As he lets the hot water run over him, still delighting in it far more than he ever did before he spent a week on Harry's mountain without the luxury, he can barely contain the feeling of elation that seems to hum in his blood. Secretly, and maybe a little foolishly, he's beginning to realise that feeling has been there every morning he's awakened tangled up with Harry, and he thinks it's something to do with relief that the sense of magic-that-isn't-magic that settles over them when it's dark and they're alone doesn't fade away with the rising sun. He knows in his logical mind that this isn't a dream, but he still can't shake that flash of fear before he opens his eyes each day that he'll be alone in his big, empty bed in London, and that Harry and his mountain will have been nothing more than a passing nighttime fancy. The subsequent swell of relief and pleasure that accompanies the realisation that he's not is so strong that he's surprised Harry doesn't somehow feel it in the places where their skin touches.

He's startled from his thoughts by a sleep-rumpled Harry flinging open the shower door and nearly pushing him from under the spray up against the cool tiles of the shower wall, intensity and a little bit of panic in his eyes.

"You were gone," he says, and kisses Draco hard, hard enough that Draco thinks maybe Harry shares his own irrational fear about waking up to realise this has all been a dream. "I woke up and you weren't there, I thought..."

He kisses Draco again, more softly this time, and Draco smiles and runs his hands down Harry's back.

"I didn't want to wake you," he says against Harry's lips.

Harry rolls his eyes and pulls back, looking amused and accusing all at once. "I seem to remember having a discussion about waking one another last night. Actually, as I recall, it was less a discussion and more you telling me off for saying those very same words." He raises an eyebrow with a mocking smirk that makes Draco squirm, because he'll be damned if _mocking_ isn't a very good look on Harry indeed.

Draco weighs his response, opting for childishness over haughtiness, because frankly, he doesn't think he could pull off cool disinterest with a naked Harry pressed against him anyway - his body is betraying just how _interested_ he is - and he pulls a face. "Yes, and I recall one about you telling me you don't sleep. Since you proved yourself wrong, I thought it a shame to wake you for no reason."

Harry flicks his eyes over Draco, still pinning him to the shower wall, then drops to his knees, and Draco gulps.

"I'm not sure I'd say it's for _no _reason," Harry says coyly, before reaching out with no preamble and taking Draco's cock into his hand and mouth and Draco loses his grasp on coherent thought, letting his head drop back against the tiles and focusing on keeping his knees from buckling against the sensation of Harry's lips and tongue and the slide of his hand.

Much later - so much later that Draco thinks that if he and Harry are going to continue to shower together when they're back in London, he'll have to learn some sort of spell to keep hot water coming from his tap indefinitely - they emerge from the steam-filled bathroom to dress and meet Ron and Hermione.

"You didn't really think I'd left this morning, did you?" Draco asks Harry as he hops around on one foot, trying vainly to pull a sock onto the other.

"Merlin, Draco, it's a lot easier to do that if you'd just sit down," Harry snorts, shaking his head. "And no, I suppose not. Despite all the evidence you've seen to the contrary though, I'm really not used to sleeping so long. Or so well." The last bit is said more softly, and with a hint of gratitude, and Draco stops his balancing act to look up at Harry, whose face is guardedly hopeful, Draco thinks, at the prospect that maybe his sleepless nights will become less frequent.

"I like waking up with you," Harry goes on, almost shyly, and Draco smiles. "And not just because it's _you_ and I like having you there, although I do, it's just..." He pushes a hand through messy, wet hair. "_Waking up_ is a little like a gift all its own right now for me, you know? At least waking up without sitting bolt upright in bed certain someone's been killed or hurt."

Draco, who has finally managed to pull on his socks without falling over, kneels in front of Harry where he sits, looking up into Harry's face. Once again, he knows exactly what Harry's talking about, having woken that way more times than he's ever admitted aloud. He nods, but says nothing, waiting for Harry, who smiles and reaches out to swipe a strand of Draco's hair out of his eyes.

"Turns out there's something better than just waking up of my own accord," Harry says finally, and Draco quirks a questioning eyebrow before he can stop himself. Harry blushes. "Having you there when I do."

Draco's chest is so tight he thinks he won't be able to breathe and the _curlsmolder_ blazes beneath his ribs. He grins at Harry though, because once again he's managed to say something that's turned Draco into a stupid, sappy idiot, and he loves it.

"I'll keep that in mind," he chokes, his voice shaky against the tide of emotions he can't seem to get a handle on, not that he's particularly interested in trying.

Harry grins back and scoots forward to press another messy kiss against Draco's smiling lips.

"See that you do," he says, and Draco snorts and gets back to his feet, pulling Harry with him.

"As much as I'd like to stay in this room all day," he says, dragging Harry to the door before he can protest, "at some point I suppose we should see what we came here for, and I don't fancy Hermione beating down the door looking for us."

They wander into the main lodge, spotting their friends at a table near the large expanse of screen that looks out over the crater. Ron waves and motions for them to sit, and Draco notices with some satisfaction that they haven't eaten yet either, which means they arrived late to breakfast as well.

"Nice night, you two?" He asks, barely able to control the twitching corner of his mouth at Hermione's blush and Ron's grin. "Catch up on your sleep, did you?"

"Sleep, right," Hermione says, snorting and blushing. "I'm sure we're as well-rested as you two."

The four of them look at one another for a moment, faces turning red and smiles threatening, and then they all dissolve into laughter. They're all adults, for Merlin's sake, but something about sitting at a breakfast table so bright with morning-after glow that Draco nearly needs blinders is so surreal that laughter seems they finally pull themselves together, go through the motions of ordering coffee - which Harry _still_ insists upon watching Draco drink - and breakfast, and head out to meet their guide, Draco is once again struck by how _easy_ things are here.

He wonders how things might have been different if Harry had shown up one day in London instead. How he would have been received, what he might have said, if he could have made everyone understand.

_If he still would have wanted me. If we would have..._

Draco shakes his head before he allows his mind to wander down the sometimes-terrifying paths it has a tendency to take. He looks down at where Harry's hand rests casually on his thigh, fingers tracing small circles over the skin above his knee that make Draco shiver and smile as they sit in the back of yet another rickety Land Rover bouncing down yet another dirt road. It doesn't matter what might have happened, he reasons, because all that matters is what _did_ happen, and that Harry does want him.

That thought alone quells the quietly-rising insecurity that Draco can never quite master - _thank you for that, Father -_ no matter how old he is and no matter that all the people in his life who ever made him feel that way are dead and gone.

All save one, that is, but that one has done more to strip the insecurity away in the past week than he ever did to build it up.

Draco revels in that realisation for a moment, a little surprised at the ease with which the events of the past few days have erased so much of the uncertainty he's held onto for so long. Surprised, but pleased, and oddly accepting. He wonders, idly, as he half-listens to Harry pointing out strange creatures on the horizon, if Harry wasn't the only one wandering all this time, and if perhaps _he_ was the one who was lost, instead of Harry.

It's a strange thing, he thinks, that it took someone else's need to wander for him to find himself, but that's just what's happened since Harry left. He owes most every bit of the life he now enjoys to the man at his side, though he never could have known that all those years ago when he watched the girl who would become his best friend pace back and forth in front of him in a frenzy reminiscent of the Cornish Pixies that madman Lockhart had released in their second year at Hogwarts, as she by turns begged and bullied him into helping in the search for Harry.

Harry had never been lost, not really, even though he was thousands of miles away. It was Draco who'd been lost, and Harry who'd made sure he was found, and after all that, Draco thinks, maybe the rest of it won't be so bad after all.

He realises Harry is looking at him as they bounce through the grassy crater floor, a look of perplexed amusement on his face. Draco grins at him, basking happily in the sounds of Ron and Hermione's chatter with the guide in the seat in front of them and the glint in the green eyes looking back at him.

"What's so funny, Malfoy?" Harry says teasingly.

Draco covers Harry's hand with his own, tangling his fingers into Harry's. He looks at his friends for a moment, then back at Harry, the grin still splitting his face. Harry smiles back, still confused.

"I was just thinking I'm glad you weren't really lost after all, Harry," he says softly, "and that you wandered somewhere we could find you at just the right moment."

Harry stares at him for a long time, his face going serious again, and Draco stares back, still smiling and gripping at Harry's fingers, until Harry's smile returns. It's a softer smile this time, full of promise instead of uncertainty, and Draco thinks it probably mirrors his own.

"I am as well," he says, just as quietly. "And that it was _you_ who found me."

"I think," Draco says, "that perhaps it was you who found me."

Harry leans in to kiss him softly, still smiling.

"Didn't know you were lost," he teases, pulling another smile from Draco, "but if I did, I'm glad for that, too." After a moment, Harry speaks again. "Maybe the next time I decide to wander, you'll come along. Just to be sure neither of us gets lost again?"

Draco squeezes their fingers together and nods, and their next kiss is like a sealing of a bargain, and when Draco settles back into his seat to look out over the vast, sunlit plain, he's nearly certain his days of being lost are over for good.

_fin_


End file.
